


"Baker Street: The Sleep of Reason": A Memoir by John H. Watson, M.D.

by Gaedhal



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2019-11-29 05:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 70,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaedhal/pseuds/Gaedhal
Summary: This is a Victorian Era story in the "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Ritchie-verse. The main characters are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson and is from the doctor's memoirs.This is a full-length story and it is finished. It was written before "A Game of Shadows" so there are differences in this story and film canon, mainly in the person and backstory of one particular character.I hope you enjoy it.





	1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"

 

It was a good morning.

I had three patients in my consulting room: a man with numbness in his extremities, a woman with a nervous complaint, and a mother with a child suffering from catarrh. 

I referred the man to a specialist in Harley Street; I fear he has a weakness in his heart which is causing a lack of blood flow. A serious complaint and one beyond my ken, I fear. 

The woman I listened to for the better part of an hour and then gave her a mild sedative draught. She is newly married and seems to have no one to talk to. I suggested that she talk to her husband about her apprehensions, which seemed a revelation to her. I believe she left more at ease.

To the mother and child I prescribed a regimen of warm rooms and mild steam along with a tincture of eucalyptus for the child to breathe in at night. The boy was basically healthy, but I warned the mother that if the congestion continued beyond the spring, that a change of climate might be in order. I also suggested more fruit and fresh green vegetables in his diet. She frowned, but said that she would follow my advice. I told her to bring the lad back in a month to gauge his progress.

Three patients. That wouldn’t seem a great number to an established physician with a thriving practice, but to me it was three more than I would have had a few months ago, when I often sat for hours waiting for even a single client to darken my door. It was during that period that I began to write down a few notes about the exploits of my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Just for my own amusement, of course, since many of his cases involve the great and mighty of this and other lands, and most are of a sensitive and often personal nature. But I find that I enjoy penning these narratives. I flatter myself that I have a flair for framing a story and parroting dialogue. Perhaps I might try my hand at something for the theatre one of these days.

Unless, of course, I can attract a few more patients.

Then I can move my consulting rooms to a place more conducive to a medical practice. Harley Street would be ideal, but even Wimpole Street would suffice. And, one day, perhaps an intimate practice in a place like Highgate or Hampstead. A place where I might have a house of my own. A wife. A family...

Faint hope!

Perhaps I dwell on these things because I have been on my own for so long: my mother dead in my early childhood, my father a remote figure with little time for children, my elder brother of unsettled and uneven character. When I was still at school my father died, leaving only enough money for my education and little more. My brother, trained in law, eschewed that practice and instead followed business schemes that always seemed to go awry, usually due to his mind being befuddled by drink. He swiftly lost his inheritance – what little there was of it – and went to seek his fortune in the colonies, first the West Indies, then Australia. I never saw him again, learning of his untimely fate only when an unknown solicitor in Sydney sent me his personal effects, chiefly a few letters and our father’s watch.

Thus I came to be the last of our family.

Is it any wonder that after I obtained my medical degree I was eager to leave England and make my fortune with Her Majesty’s forces in the East?

Alas! That was a mistake of the first order. The wounds I suffered in the late Afghan war almost cashiered me for good and ended any hope of a career as an Army surgeon. My depression during my convalescence is something that still pains me. My health and hopes dashed, I was as low as ever a man can be. I was living on my small Army pension and searching for cheaper digs in London when an old friend introduced me to Sherlock Holmes, who was searching for a second to share a suite of rooms in Baker Street. I seized upon the man and the circumstance immediately.

I believe it saved my life. It certainly saved my sanity.

And now...

I locked up my consulting room and met Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

“Will you be having luncheon in today, Doctor?” she asked. “Shall I send up sandwiches for you and Mr. Holmes?”

“Not today, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. “I shall be dining out this evening. But some tea would be welcome, if you will.”

“Oh, a night out will be so nice for you, Doctor! I’ll have the girl bring the tray up directly,” she said.

I nodded in agreement. I put my hand on the door handle to our sitting room, but then hesitated. 

There is little I can hide from Sherlock Holmes, any more than any man can hide anything from him.

In that I mean the details of life and limb.

But of the workings of the heart... those are in that unknown realm where he travels little – if ever.

I opened the door.

Gladstone immediately woofed and waddled over, emitting the fetid odour for which his breed is infamous. He’s becoming ridiculously fat, which is fatal for a bulldog. He lives on a diet of scones, toast crusts, leftover meatpies, and whatever garbage Holmes drops on the floor when he remembers to eat. And the scraps of mutton and bacon Mrs. Hudson saves for him. This is a terrible diet for a man let alone a beast.

Holmes was lying on the sofa, staring at the wall with that dazed look I’ve come to know so well.

“Has the dog been walked?” I asked.

There was no reply.

“I said, has the dog been walked?”

Usually Gladstone is taken out in the morning and again in the evening by one of Holmes’ Irregulars, a band of street urchins who always seem to be at hand. They are his eyes and ears on the streets of London, as ubiquitous as the mud and just as invisible. They are also very willing to perform any small deed in Holmes’ service, from delivering messages, to hailing cabs, to hauling coal for Mrs. Hudson’s stove. And walking Gladstone.

I shook my head. When Holmes gets into one of these moods he might refuse to speak for days on end, even to me. There is nothing for it but to ignore him. I learned that lesson early on.

The girl brought up the tray and I poured myself a cup of tea. Holmes prefers the Earl Grey while I like a lighter blend, a Ceylon or China. Of course, Mrs. Hudson sent up Earl Grey.

“Shall I pour you a cup, Holmes?”

I didn’t expect a response. In fact, I was amazed his eyes were yet open. For on the small side table next to the sofa lay his morocco case. Inside were his syringe and needles.

That was no surprise. He’d had no new case in weeks and during such periods of inactivity he often resorted to the anaesthetizing effect of morphine or the false stimulation of cocaine. He was quiet, almost comatose, rather than restless and glittery-eyed, so I posited that he was under the influence of the former.

I hate these times.

I understand why he does it, but I hate it.

I drank my tea and nibbled at a teacake, feeding the rest to Gladstone. Then I fetched the dog lead and put on my greatcoat. It was April, but the weather was still chilly and I had no wish to catch my death of cold after having survived the long and miserable London winter.

Gladstone’s stump of a tail wagged furiously when he saw the lead.

“I’m going out,” I said to the empty air. “Taking Gladstone up to the park for a run.”

“Take your cane,” came a voice from the sofa. “And if you think that beast can run you are even more deluded than our friend Lestrade.”

I snatched my cane from the umbrella stand and stalked out, the dog at my heels.

Insufferable fellow!

Blasted insufferable fellow!

Gladstone and I walked up Baker Street, heading north. We are evenly matched, Gladstone and I. His legs are short but doughty, while mine are long, but mismatched. Especially in this wet weather the pain in my right limb is often acute, hence the necessity of the cane. Nevertheless we proceeded at a brisk pace up the pavement, crossing the Marylebone Road and entering Regent’s Park at the Clarence Gate.

The sun was shining and it was a spring day that other men might have called glorious. Children and their nursemaids were out in legions, running through the grass at the edge of the lake. I let Gladstone off his lead and he romped, as far as it is possible for a dignified bulldog to romp, his massive head dipping into the greenery, taking in the fragrance of the season. 

An elegant female in a fur wrap came by, walking an imperious-looking white poodle. The dogs touched noses and Gladstone wagged his stump, making acquaintance. The female likewise looked me up and down. She was too forward to be quite a lady, but too well-dressed and bejeweled to be a woman of the town, therefore I surmised that she was a denizen of St. John’s Wood, that nearby enclave of houses owned by wealthy men but lived in by women who are not their wives.

I nodded and tipped my hat to her, but she turned up her nose and tugged at the poodle’s lead. I was obviously beneath her interest. It must be my clothes. Must be. Because my person is pleasing to the ladies. I know that from personal experience.

That turned my thoughts to my engagement for dinner.

My old St. Bart’s dresser, Stamford, the very fellow who introduced me to Holmes, invited me to dinner. He’s lately married and, as all newlyweds are wont, he and his bride are determined that everyone they know should also be married. To that end they invited me to dine with them in their new house in Chelsea – a house apparently paid for by the in-laws, who have also set Stamford up in practice.

“It’s capital!” he boasted at the Criterion Bar where we had met for a drink a few days before. “You must marry! It’s quite the best thing I have ever done. Clean shirts, decent food, someone to order the servants about – and other advantages, too, if I may say so!” He winked and dug his elbow sharply into my ribs.

Stamford has always been a vulgar fellow.

“Marriage is far from my thoughts,” I replied. “Even if I had the money, I lack the inclination.”

Stamford frowned. “You’ve been lodging with Holmes far too long,” he said darkly. “Mark my words, you’ll turn into as much of a misanthrope as he is before long. And then it will too late! A pair of sad old bachelors, that’s what you’ll be! Get out of Baker Street, man! Didn’t you sell a few stories to the ‘Strand Magazine’? That one about the African safari was quite entertaining. Writing must bring in some extra mint.”

“A little,” I admitted. The truth was very little. I’d sold two stories, the safari one and another adventure based on an incident I witnessed in Bombay, and made the sum total of £3, which was hardly enough to keep me in paper and fine-quality pen and ink. Still, it was something.

And then there were all those notes from my excursions with Holmes. One day, perhaps, they might form the basis for... something.

As much as I didn’t want to give in to Stamford, I yearned for intercourse with society other than Holmes. I feared Stamford was correct in his suspicions – that Holmes was a drag upon my emotions and that the longer I stayed with him, the more I would become like him.

Two ageing bachelors, living in degraded rooms with a flatulent bulldog, as we progressed towards senility.

“Yes,” I said. “I shall dine with you.”

“Splendid!” Stamford cried and we shook on it.

And now the date was here.

I knew that a lady would be offered, along with the meal and port afterwards. Some school friend of Stamford’s bride. Or a spinster cousin. She might be homely and awkward. Or beautiful and accomplished. But she was likely to be as poor as I was. Eager to marry and get out of her parents’ house, or out of her situation as a teacher or governess. A husband-hunter. And I was the prey.

Yet... I found myself looking forward to the engagement. Intrigued. I’d lived too long in all-male society, first at school, then at university, then in the Army, and finally in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

I needed to be around a woman. Before it was too late.

Too late for... what?

“Here! Gladstone!”

The dog came and I re-attached the lead.

We walked back to 221b.

Holmes was where I had left him, motionless on the sofa. The girl had removed the tea tray, but the rooms were otherwise unchanged. Mrs. Hudson’s housekeeping skills were wasted in our suite – Holmes did not allow her dustcloths and brooms to cross the doorstep.

Gladstone settled himself on his blanket by the fire with a satisfied groan.

I approached the sofa and gently touched Holmes’ neck, feeling for a pulse.

Yes, that’s my fear. That one day he will miscalculate. Or that his preternaturally strong body will eventually fail, defeated by one drug or by a combination of the two.

I know what such influences can do to a man. I watched drink destroy my brother, watched helplessly as it broke him down, bit by bit. What left for the colonies was a shadow of what he was, of what he could have been. It was only a matter of time before I would receive that package with our father’s watch, the last remnant of our inheritance.

“I’m alive,” said Holmes, opening his eyes. His eyes are hazel, green in some lights, golden in others. “Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I replied. “I’ve ceased to worry about you, since you refuse to worry about yourself.”

“Liar.” He sat up slowly. “Did the beast have a good run?” And then he laughed.

“We both had a pleasant walk.”

“You’re going out tonight,” he stated.

“Yes. Did that take your powers of deduction to discern?”

“No, I heard you tell Mrs. Hudson. Her voice carries like a foghorn.”

“Stamford invited me.” I settled into the chair opposite the sofa and opened the paper, pretending to read.

“And I was not included?” Holmes lifted an eyebrow quizzically. “Is that fitting? Inviting a fellow and neglecting his... friend?”

“We are hardly joined at the hip,” I commented. “It’s only an informal dinner party.”

“I imagine.” Holmes stood up and began pacing the room. The morphine was wearing off already and I feared he’d resort to another, stronger dose. “These people are beneath you!”

“I crave society,” I said softly. “I crave...”

“I know what you crave!” Holmes cried. “It’s absurd! Utterly absurd! If you wish to feed your baser animal needs, there are simpler ways to do it. Ways that won’t entangle you with some harpy for the rest of your natural life!”

“It’s only dinner,” I said in exasperation. “I’m not going to run off with the female to Gretna Green on the midnight train!”

“But one day... you might.” His voice was soft, the words almost a whisper.

“Holmes... I....” I set down my paper. “If you would put aside these drugs, perhaps visit your brother’s estate in the country. Or even take a trip. To Italy. Or Germany.”

“Only if you come with me.” His eyes pinned me like a butterfly is pinned to a board.

“I cannot! I have my patients. My practice is just beginning to pick up.”

“No matter.” He shrugged and reached for the morocco case. “I have other diversions.”

“No!” I stayed his hand. It was icy. I often think his veins run with iced water instead of blood.

“What then?” His eyes were green in the fading light.

“I’ll cancel dinner. I’ll send one of the Irregulars with a note for Stamford, begging off.”

He slid back against the sofa, pulling me along with him.

“Good,” he said, closing his eyes and smiling. “John.”


	2. “A Meeting in Piccadilly”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson meets an old acquaintance.

 

I had been visiting Regent Street to pick up a pocket-watch that I had left at Carson’s to be repaired – the winding stem had become loose. After retrieving the timepiece, I thought I might while away an hour at the Criterion Bar; perhaps I would meet Stamford there – it is his favorite place of refreshment – and have the opportunity to apologize in person for bowing out of his dinner party of the previous week. I am not in the habit of accepting dinner engagements and then reneging upon them. That would be the height of poor manners and incivility. Unfortunately, my intimate friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with whom I share a suite of rooms in Baker Street, was quite ill that evening. 

Quite ill.

Yes, that was the excuse I made in my note to Stamford and his bride.

Now I am not by nature an untruthful man. Mendacity and falsehood are against my better nature. I no longer follow the religion of my youth, in which I was raised and trained from earliest childhood, nor do I follow any particular creed or belief, although, unlike my skeptical friend Holmes, I do not look down upon those who need the support of the supernatural over the logical in order to arrange their lives. However, I pride myself in following a strict moral and ethical code of my own making, one that has served me both as a soldier and a physician, as well as a subject of Her Majesty and a citizen of her Greater Empire. Much of that code involves honour. And honour assumes honesty.

And, in fact, I was being honest, being truthful, when I begged off Stamford’s party. Holmes was ill. Acutely ill. Gravely ill.

I tell myself that, although the illness was – and is – of his own making.

And Holmes was much in my thoughts as I made my way down Regent Street towards Piccadilly.

Perhaps that’s why I didn’t notice him at first. My mind was preoccupied. The street and pavement were crowded, as they always are in midday in that part of London, especially on a brisk April day when the sun was still attempting to breach the morning fog.

“Doctor! I say!”

My ears perked up like a foxhound that hears the bugle, but I shook it off. I was not expecting to meet anyone in this part of town. Unless, of course Stamford might be on his way to the Criterion and thereby hail me. But this voice was nothing like Stamford’s baritone. Instead, it was a high voice. Not feminine, but more a light tenor. And the inflection was decidedly of the lower orders. Even, perhaps, that accent from the vicinity of the Bow Bells that some term Cockney.

“Doctor! Doctor Watson!”

That stopped me. Surely I was being signaled. But by whom?

A young fellow came up beside me. He was dressed like a toff – or how a young man with little fashion sense might imagine a toff would dress – in a bowler hat, checked wool trousers, a coarse linen shirt, and a garish yellow waistcoat, over which was a worn tweed jacket that looked vaguely familiar.

I perused the tweed jacket again.

No wonder it looked familiar, for it was my own.

“Who the deuce are you? And whatever are you doing wearing my old Norfolk hacking jacket?” I demanded.

“Wot? This?” The young man tugged at the lapels and gave me a cheeky grin. “Looks nice, don’t it? That’s fine material, that is!”

“It ought to be!” I huffed. “I paid £2 for it not three years ago!”

“You?” the lad frowned. “Didn’t know it was yours, Doctor. The Guv’nor give it to me. Said I’d look a treat in it. ’Specially with me new weskit. Paid three shillings for it and worth every farthing.”

“Listen, my good fellow, I don’t know who you are, but...”

“Don’t know? Why you know me, Doctor!” he cried. “You know me sure as the nose on your face! I’m Mick Wiggins!”

The name meant nothing to me. “Mick Wiggins?” I cast my mind back on numerous cases in which Holmes and I had taken part, many involving denizens of all strata of society, but the name Mick Wiggins did not figure in any of them.

Now I take pride not only in my memory, but also in the copious notes I keep on all the enterprises that Sherlock Holmes embarks upon. Many of these details are of a sensitive nature, involving both high and low. Some of Holmes’ cases are so secret that I often worry for fear they should fall into the wrong hands. But Holmes seems to have no such fear. In fact, he encourages me in my literary endeavors, both the trifling adventure stories that I have offered to the public, as well as the accounts of his cases, which so far have remained private.

“One day, my dear Watson,” he has said to me on more than one occasion. “One day you will reveal my techniques to the greater world, bringing me fame unlike any ever known by a modest consulting detective and resident genius. You shall be my Boswell, for every great man needs his official biographer.”

You must discount Holmes’ immense egotism, which can be disconcerting to people who have never observed his powers of deduction at first hand. But I have. And I can only conclude that although it is immodest to state it oneself, Holmes is in actuality a genius of the first order, perhaps the only one it will ever be my privilege to know.

“Wiggins!” the fellow repeated. “From the Irregulars!”

I stared at the lad. Wiggins of the Irregulars, Holmes’ contingent of street arabs and urchins. His eyes and ears on the streets on London. When I first came to know Holmes, Wiggins was called his ‘lieutenant’: a filthy child with a sharp eye and a quick wit who was the chief of the Irregulars, the one who took orders from Holmes and sent the boys out to do his bidding. He also collected their fees and, I assume, distributed the same to the boys, according to their deeds.

But I remembered a lad of ten or twelve – it’s difficult to tell the ages of these boys who live in the shadows and are often the worst for nourishment – not this ruddy-cheeked would-be fashion-plate. I tried to remember that last time I’d seen him, but alas, I could not. The boys came and went, but the Irregulars remained, always perpetually in early adolescence.

“Good heavens, Wiggins!” I exclaimed. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you. How old are you now?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know, really, Doctor. Mebbe sixteen or thereabouts. I was born in the Workhouse and they didn’t keep no records of that fatal day. Or if they did, they didn’t tell me before I scarpered out of there.”

“You seem to be doing well,” I replied, looking him up and down. And he did seem well. Although not tall, he was robust and well-fed. And his clothes, including my hacking jacket, were fairly brushed, if not exactly clean. 

“I am, Doctor,” the fellow boasted. “I even got me own room over by Charing Cross. I works as a messenger for the telegraph office in Oxford Street. I get wages and I keeps all my tips!”

“Good chap!” I said, encouragingly.

“I’m right flush,” Wiggins said. “I go to the music hall and have a pint any time I like. I even went down to Brighton the summer last with a bloke I know. I even bathed in the sea, I did! And I owe it all to the Guv’nor.”

“The Governor?” I frowned.

“The Guv!” he stated, as if it was obvious. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Who else?”

“Holmes?” I said in surprise.

“He staked me and helped me get me situation,” said Wiggins. “He’s a capital bloke, is Mr. Holmes. A real gentleman!”

“I agree with you on that,” I readily concurred.

So Sherlock Holmes was not only making use of these children of the streets for his crime-solving intelligence, but he was assisting them as well. He once told me that Wiggins was as bright a boy as any attending the finest public school in the land, Eton or Harrow or any of those. He only lacked the advantages of family and money that those boys had to make good in the world.

Unfortunately, such lads as Wiggins often fall into crime. A keen and active mind must be used, and when it is not employed for good then it must be employed for ill. It was heartening to know that my good friend Holmes was directing his Irregulars to the benefit of society and not the harm of it.

“Come and have a drink with me, Doctor,” he said. And he was already pulling at my arm. 

“Oh, no,” I said. “I must beg off.”

“Come on, Doctor!” Wiggins urged. “I’ve a friend who’s the bar boy at the Salisbury. We’ll be made welcome there.” He grinned at me winningly. “I’ll pay. I told you I was flush!”

And so I found myself being guided away from Piccadilly and towards Leicester Square. I recognized the Salisbury, which is on St. Martin’s Lane, as a theatrical public house. I had never been there myself, but knew its reputation as a meeting ground for actors, producers, playwrights, and other types who populate that dramatic milieu.

Wiggins sauntered into the pub as if he owned the place and was greeted by another lad in an apron, carrying a tray. “’Allo, Mick!” the boy cried. 

“Two pints of bitter for me and the doctor here,” Wiggins called. “Sit yourself down, Doctor. Make yourself at home.”

The interior of the Salisbury was ornate in a garish way, all mirrors and gold and mahogany fittings. I could see how a lad like Wiggins might be impressed with such a show, although it was not a place in which my simpler sensibilities would ever be comfortable. But the place was quite sociable. I recognized an actor I had seen play Laertes two season ago at the Royal, as well as a tenor with the D’Oyly Carte Company.

“Ain’t this place a treat?” said Wiggins, sipping his pint. “I know most of the nobs here and say ‘Howdya do?’ to them just like that!” He snapped his fingers.

I let Wiggins pay for the pints – a point of pride to him – but I stood him the second round and also one for his friend. While we drank the young man chattered on about this and that, mostly theatrical gossip, but his talk was also peppered with praise of Sherlock Holmes.

“How did you come by my tweed jacket?” I finally asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“The Guv’nor give it to me. Told me it would bring me luck ’cause him wot wore it before was a good man who brought him luck, too.” Wiggins raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know he meant you, Doctor. He holds you highly, does the Guv.”

“Well, I am relieved to hear that,” I replied in amusement. “For I hold him in equally high esteem.”

Wiggins put down his pint and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. Or my jacket. “Come and see me room, Doctor. I ain’t half proud of it.”

“Your room?” I frowned. Why would the fellow want me to see his room?

“You can tell the Guv’nor you saw how I was doin’,” he said. “See that his consideration ain’t gone to waste.”

“Well...” I hesitated. But then I thought of Holmes. He would not begrudge the lad because he was not of his own class. No man looked at all his fellows, both high and low, as equals in quite the manner that Sherlock Holmes did. “Yes, Wiggins. I should be pleased to see your room.”

I followed the lad out of the Salisbury, up St. Martin’s Lane and then towards Charing Cross and the warren of alleys between that thoroughfare and nearby Covent Garden. We paused before a nondescript building and Wiggins pushed open the door and trotted up the stairway, beckoning me.

“I told you I had me own place,” he said with real pride.

The room was shabby, but tidy. A tiny window overlooked a patch of yard behind the building. He had some pictures ripped out of the newspapers tacked up on the wall over his narrow bed: an elegant woman in an evening gown, a pugilist with fists raised, a racehorse, and other trifles. His extra clothes were neatly folded and stored on a shelf alongside a flat cap and a battered straw boater. He even had a small rag rug on the floor, on which he had set a pair of red carpet slippers. I had to admit that Young Wiggins was much more orderly in his personal surroundings than Holmes himself.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Wiggins,” I said.

“And now I’ll do well for you, Doctor,” he said. And with that he put his arms around my neck and, standing on tiptoe, kissed me directly upon the lips.

“Good Lord, Wiggins!” I cried. “What are you on about?”

“My profession,” he said, deftly discarding his clothes. “You don’t think I makes all my crust delivering messages, do you? I usually charge five shillings for a toss-off and another five bob for a suck, but for you, Doctor, it’s nothin’. I’ve always had a yen for you. Thought you was a handsome bloke. Different from the Guv. More smooth, like. Refined. But the genteel toffs is the best fucks, I finds. Once they give in, they give it all they got! I’ll even let you brown me, if that’s your fancy. And I don’t bend over for just any man, believe me.” He reached into my trousers and seized my member. “That’s a beauty, Doctor! A real beauty!”

I stood there in an almost paralytic condition while the rascal performed upon me an act which I can scarcely bring myself to recall. But I did not stop him. And after a while I did not recoil. After a longer while I did other such things that it shames me to name, so I will not, except to say that Wiggins was a master of his profession.

And I found a kind of relief in that room that I sorely needed. I had known a long time that I needed it, but never in my life would I have acted upon it with anyone but...

I closed my eyes as Wiggins eased me back onto his thin bed.

I did not return to 221b until late that night.

Holmes was where I had left him earlier that day, lying on the sofa, staring upward.

“Been out, my dear Watson?” he asked, his eyes never wavering from the ceiling.

“Obviously,” I said shortly. My face burned, as if he knew. As if he could tell where I had been and what I had been doing. And, being Sherlock Holmes, he did. He knew all. Knew at a single glance.

“Mycroft has offered us the use of his house in Sussex,” he said. “If you can tear yourself away from your practice for a few days, I thought we could leave on Friday.”

“Friday,” I replied. “Yes. I think I could. Tear myself away, I mean.”

“Splendid,” said Holmes. “The air will do us both a world of good. And we’ll bring the dog. It will do you good, too, won’t it, Gladstone?”

And Gladstone, hearing his name, wagged his tail happily.


	3. “A Journey in a Closed Carriage”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Mycroft's estate.

If we hadn’t brought the dog, then we could have taken the train from Victoria Station and arrived in Chichester well before the morning was done.

Gladstone would have been fine staying with Mrs. Hudson. He’s stayed with Mrs. Hudson dozens of times. He’s perfectly happy with Mrs. Hudson. She feeds him leftover shepherd’s pie and makes a fuss over him.

She also refrains from killing him. In that, she is a decided improvement over my esteemed friend with whom I share rooms in 221b Baker Street, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

“The dog wants air, Watson,” Holmes reasoned as he paced the sitting room in his ragged dressing gown. “He wants stimulation. The refreshment of a change in scenery. He needs to arouse his canine instincts anew. Pursue rabbits and stalk other vermin. Water new and exotic flora. Dig his claws deep into the soil of Sussex.”

“He eats, sleeps, and farts,” I stated. “That is what he wants, that is what he needs, that is what he does. No more and no less.”

“You give the poor beast no credit, Watson,” Holmes yawned. “Pack his valise – and yours! We leave early in the morning and will be there in time for supper, unless the roads are bad.” He frowned and glanced out the window. Holmes’ practical and theoretical knowledge is extensive, but weather prognostication is not one of the areas of his expertise. “It’s fair today, so I assume it will be fair tomorrow. Bright and sunny as any April day could be! Perfect for traveling.”

We departed from Baker Street the next morning in a driving rainstorm and bounced and bumped the entire way, cold and soggy in a closed carriage that leaked in at least two places, one of which was directly above my head.

“Think of how convenient this is, my boy,” said Holmes, lighting his pipe. “We are lucky to have avoided the train. Mycroft rarely uses his carriage and he’s never at the house, so we will have a splendid time in the country, with few intrusions and at no expense whatsoever.”

“Except the cost of pneumonia,” I fumed. “My deuced leg was already acting up. Soon my shoulder will begin to ache in this cursed damp!”

“Your leg only wants exercise,” said Holmes, dismissively. “There are some fine walks in West Sussex. Beautiful country, that. Historic.”

Confound the man! I knew for a fact that Holmes hated the country and became restless if he was separated from London for more than a few hours, that he detested walking, unless he was in pursuit of some miscreant, and that history had little significance to him if it did not shed light on a case. Yet he had set his mind on this trip to his brother Mycroft’s estate in West Sussex and he would not be denied.

I admit that I had no desire to remain in London. I, too, wished to make an escape, but for my own reasons – reasons I did not share with my companion. But there were more congenial places than a remote and unfamiliar country house. And certainly more congenial methods of traveling there.

I am a smoker myself, although I am attempting to quit the filthy practice, as I believe a physician should set an example of healthful habits to his patients. But Holmes is a chronic and compulsive puffer. And his pipe tobacco, a rough shag which is tolerable in an airy sitting room with a high ceiling, was not so agreeable in a closed carriage. 

I sneezed. And then sneezed again.

Then Gladstone made a noise that is much like a sneeze, but which signaled a function considerably more unpleasant to other parties sharing his space.

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed, taking out my handkerchief and covering my nose. “He’s been doing that all morning! What in the name of heaven did you feed him, Holmes?”

Holmes shrugged. “The leavings of my own breakfast. A few kippers. A half of a blood pudding. The remains of a bowl of oatmeal. While you lay abed, slumbering the day away as usual, I partook of a hearty meal provided by the valuable Mrs. Hudson, fortifying myself for the rigours of travel.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You never take more than coffee and a crust of toast! You fed the dog all that food on purpose, just to plague me! You knew the effect it would have upon his digestive tract!”

“Balderdash!” he snorted, looking out the window and puffing on his pipe. “I did no such thing.”

Holmes truly is the most insufferable creature! His methods are as transparent as his motives are mystifying.

That is, until he makes them clear.

“I hope you slept well last night,” he said, still perusing the countryside. “I know your rest is often compromised.”

“I slept...” I paused. The reason I had difficulty rising in the morning was that I often could not get to sleep, or else woke often in the night from unremembered but troubling dreams, as well he knew. “My sleeping habits are of no consequence, Holmes.”

“Since you returned home quite late the other night,” Holmes remarked, turning his gaze in my direction. “Or should I say... morning?”

There it was.

It irked him that I had been out. But it irked him more that I would say nothing about that evening, where I had been or what I had done. But I had vowed to myself that I would never relate what had passed then to any man. Or woman. But especially not to him.

“A fixed point, Watson, that’s what you are,” he mused. “Good old Watson.”

But I didn’t respond. I refused to respond.

I never ask where Holmes goes at all hours, sometimes for days at a time, returning dressed in rags, or smelling like chemicals, or with unexplained wounds on his body. I never ask. It is not my place to ask. Even when I sit up for hours into the night, staring out of the windows of the sitting room at 221b, listening to the passing hansoms and drays, the whistle of the policeman on his beat, watching the fog thicken and swirl. Wondering if he will ever return.

Wondering.

But I never ask. Never.

But he had the gall to probe me in his circular, infuriating way. He smelled a mystery.

I refuse to be one of his mysteries!

I closed my eyes, feeling the rocking of the carriage, the jolt as it hit another rut in the dreary road to Chichester.

Wiggins. I could still feel his hands on my body. Still feel his breath against my face. His...

But I cannot! Cannot think. Cannot remember!

Wiggins had broken something in me. Broken my resolve. My discipline. Awakened a monster within my breast. Broken me as certainly as I had been broken in the mountains of Afghanistan, never to completely recover. But that was only my body. This was my mind, my being. My soul, as it were.

I don’t speak of it to many people, even my intimates, but I was born and raised in the Roman Catholic faith. Catholics are not acceptable to most people in England. Although my family was as British as any in the Queen’s Empire, we were looked down on, as other Catholics are looked down on still. The hint of Popery is foreign, even tainted, to the stout Anglo-Saxon sensibility. I was educated from childhood by the Jesuits, another suspect foreign order, but they taught me well, I believe. They taught me to reason and to value knowledge. And they taught me control: control of the mind and control of the body.

Control.

That teaching served me well in my medical studies. And it served me well in Her Majesty’s service. And it has served me in my excursions, my adventures if you will, with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

But that control was crumbling, like a wall with a weak foundation, like a building undermined from below and shaken. Shaken to its very essence...

Gladstone began whining, his paw tapping at my leg.

“Tell the coachman to stop,” I said. “Gladstone needs to stretch his legs.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I need to stretch mine as well. Too much coffee this morning. It goes through me like a sieve.”

“Don’t be vulgar!” I snapped.

“Really, Watson, I’ve rarely known you to be so out of temper,” said Holmes, rapping on the front of the carriage. The coachman opened the slot. “We will need a few moments of respite, Webb. If you would be so good as to pull to the side of the road?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The rain had ceased, but we stepped out onto a disgracefully muddy road that sucked at our boots and spattered our trousers. The grass on the verge was even more sodden, but Gladstone snorted and sniffed there quite happily.

Holmes sighed and unbuttoned his fly, pissing on a rock at the side of the road. I looked away, but did the same. It was still hours away from Chichester and who knew when we would next be offered relief?

“Life is what it is, Watson,” Holmes said. The comment was out of the blue. He looked up at the sky, where the sun struggled to break through the glowering clouds.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied.

“We see, but we do not observe. We sense, but we do not perceive. We feel, but we do not act upon those emotions. We move through this life like sleepwalkers, or like Gladstone there, taking each moment as it comes, heedless of the future and forgetful of the past.”

“I’m not forgetful of the past,” I said, turning away. “The past sits on my shoulder like a great dark bird, blighting my very existence and making any future happiness impossible!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You take things too much to heart, my dear boy.”

But I shook off his touch. It was the last thing in the world I desired. “Don’t call me your ‘dear boy’! I am not a boy! I have never felt like a boy, not even when I was a child! Perhaps that’s part of my problem, the reason I cannot find peace. And the reason I can never hope to find happiness!”

I stumbled back to the carriage, slamming the door behind me. It was several minutes before Holmes returned, tugging at Gladstone’s lead. The dog jumped inside, his paws filthy with muck. He sprawled on the floor of the carriage and began noisily licking himself. Holmes likewise settled on the opposite seat. He rapped sharply on the barrier and a moment later the carriage lurched forward.

“I’m looking forward to taking my leisure,” said Holmes, taking out his damned pipe once more and lighting it. “There’s nothing like the country to stimulate thought and encourage relaxation, isn’t that true, my boy?”

And to that I did not say a single word.


	4. “An Arrival at Dusk”

 

Mycroft’s estate was approximately ten miles outside Chichester on a desolate stretch of road, not within sight of the Channel, but well within reach of the unrelenting wind and rain that blew off it. The sun, which had been attempting to break through the clouds for most of the afternoon, finally gave in the ghost and instead decided to set, leaving us to arrive just as dusk was falling.

The house itself was of Jacobean origin, but the main hall had been built upon over the years so that it sprawled outward, without rhyme or reason, in a mishmash of clashing styles. From the road it looked thoroughly forbidding, a draughty old pile without a hint of cheer to brighten our coming stay.

A glum butler in a faded tailcoat was there to greet us, bolstered by a red-faced housekeeper and a gaggle of servants who gaped as if we’d arrived directly from the moon.

“Welcome to Sherringford Hall, Mr. Sherlock,” said the butler in a distinctly unwelcoming tone. It was obvious that our arrival had interrupted the tedious routine of the place.

“Hello, Lovell,” said Holmes as he leapt from the carriage. “Still here, I see.”

“As always,” Lovell answered blandly.

“Lovell was a footman here when I was boy,” Holmes explained. “And now he has full charge of this establishment. I don’t know what my brother would do without him.” 

“You were a boy here?” I exclaimed in surprise. Holmes rarely spoke of his childhood or of any personal incident that dated to the period before we became acquainted. I had known him for a number of years before I was made aware of the existence of his brother and only living relative. “I thought this was Mycroft’s house!”

“And so it is,” replied Holmes, his eyebrow raised. “His through inheritance. As the elder son, it’s all his – lock, stock, and lack of heat. This is Dr. Watson. He will be my guest.”

“Doctor.” Lovell bowed slightly and the other servants nodded their acknowledgement of my presence.

“And...” Holmes gave a tug to Gladstone’s lead and the beast jumped from the carriage with a grunt. “This is our dog, Mrs. Jenkins. See that he’s fed and looked after.”

“My dog,” I interjected. Holmes was always attempting to claim a proprietary stake in Gladstone.

“Our dog,” he repeated as the housekeeper and butler exchanged glances. “He will eat anything, so be careful of what you drop on the floor. He also emits certain odors, so he will need to take the air regularly.” Holmes handed the end of the lead to the red-faced woman.

“Yes, Mr. Sherlock,” said Mrs. Jenkins, none too pleased with this gift.

“We are fatigued by our journey, so if you’d be so good as to serve us dinner as soon as you are able we would be most grateful,” said Holmes, proceeding up the stone steps and into the entry hall as the rest of us followed in his wake. “We will also be wanting hot baths. My colleague, Dr. Watson, has a bad leg, so he will need plenty of hot water for a long soak each evening before he retires. He is also a late riser, so see that breakfast is available until 10 o’clock every morning. I will be up quite early, as is my usual habit. Coffee over tea. And I prefer a whole-grain loaf for my toast. It has more substance. Watson likes sausages with sage. And he prefers white bread, very lightly toasted. And cut on the diagonal only.”

“Very well, Mr. Sherlock,” said butler. But he cast me a rueful look.

I leaned towards my companion. “I say, Holmes, I don’t want to cause the servants any undue difficulty.”

“Nonsense, Watson!” he replied, taking off his ulster and handing it to a young footman. “What are they here for if not to make us comfortable? Mycroft retains this dismal domain year after year mainly to keep these people in gainful employment. Lord knows he hates the country and so-called country pleasures, so he has little other use for it. I imagine our coming is the most exciting thing that has happened at Sherringford since the floor of the turret room collapsed back in ’76. Isn’t that right, Lovell?”

“Yes, sir.” Lovell’s words agreed, but his face expressed a contrary opinion.

“Come now, man!” said Holmes. “Show us upstairs so we may wash and dress for dinner.”

“I see you did not bring a valet, Mr. Sherlock,” said Lovell. “Who will unpack and lay out your attire?”

“A valet is a waste of good man power,” Holmes said dismissively. “I will take care of my own unpacking and dressing, as will Watson. We are both able-bodied fellows, fully competent to care for our own needs!”

“Very good, sir,” said Lovell. But once again the butler’s countenance displayed his intense disapproval. Perhaps I, a product of the middling orders of British society, could easily service myself, but Mr. Sherlock, the son of an obviously ancient and distinguished family, was expected to behave in a manner befitting his exalted rank. In other words, unpacking his own valise was lowering himself in the eyes of all the servants. Lovell’s demeanor seemed to suggest that Holmes’ proximity to me was somehow to blame for this appalling misconduct.

The butler directed the two footmen to take our bags and we followed him up the narrow staircase and into a newer section of the house.

“Rather damp,” commented Holmes.

“The weather has been foul, sir,” said Lovell. He stopped and opened a door. “Your usual room, Mr. Sherlock. I received your telegram this morning, so I instructed Mrs. Jenkins to light a fire. I hope it will be satisfactory.”

“Quite,” said Holmes. “And where is my friend to be ensconced?”

“In the East Wing,” Lovell returned. “In the Earl’s old room. It has just been aired.”

“No,” said Holmes. “That will not do.” He stepped to the next door and opened it. “In here.”

“But that is Mr. Mycroft’s room!” exclaimed the butler, scandalized.

“Are you expecting him from London this evening?” Holmes quizzed.

“No, Mr. Sherlock, but...”

“And is the room in order?”

“Of course,” said Lovell. “It is always in order for Mr. Mycroft.”

“When was the last time my brother graced this house with his presence?” Holmes inquired.

The butler frowned. “Christmastide. He remained through the New Year and then returned to his pied-à-terre in London.”

“And I doubt you will see him until next Christmas,” said Holmes. “And if he arrives in the middle of the night and finds Watson in his bed, then he will have to deal with that as he will. He might actually welcome a warm body in his bed. It’s dashed cold in this place, even in April!”

One of the young footmen, James, stifled a giggle.

“I say, Holmes!” I protested, my cheeks warming in embarrassment at the thought of the ample Mycroft Holmes joining me under the bedclothes. “You go too far!”

“Never fear, my dear boy,” he replied, unruffled. “Lovell is used to my jests. He was on the receiving end of many of my pranks when I was a lad, weren’t you, Lovell?”

“Yes, sir,” Lovell answered, his jaw tight. “I will have James light the fire for the doctor.”

“Capital!” said Holmes, going into his own room. “I will see you downstairs to dine, Watson.”

“Yes.” I followed Lovell and James next door. “I apologize to you, Lovell. I hope we won’t be a burden to the staff.”

“No burden, sir,” he said, but his face told a different tale. 

He directed James to place my grip on a low stool and then he withdrew. The footman hastily lit the hearth.

“Anything more I can do for you, sir?” he asked. “Turn down your bed?”

He was quite young. He stared at me almost fearfully. Sherringford Hall obviously did not attract many strangers.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Thank you, James.”

“At your service, sir. Just call if you’re needing anything.” He bowed and left me alone in the dark and cavernous room.

I immediately unpacked and washed for dinner. I had many questions for my friend Holmes and hoped that he would be in a frame of mind to answer them.


	5. “A Meal at a Long Table”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Mycroft's estate.

The dining room at Sherringford Hall was, like the rest of the house, murky and cheerless. It was paneled in dark, ancient wood that I am certain was historic and priceless, but it did not put one in the humor for a companionable meal.

Holmes was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of claret in his hand, when I entered.

“Sit here, Watson,” he said, indicating the place directly next to him. “Lovell is sure to seat you at the far end of table, as if we are at a dinner party for the Ambassador from Mongolia – with you to be seated as if you were IN Mongolia, no doubt.”

Lovell, standing at the ready, pulled out my chair without a word and I sat.

“Thank you, Mr. Lovell,” I said.

“The good doctor is perfectly able to seat himself, Lovell,” Holmes commented.

“You’re welcome, Doctor,” said Lovell, his face a veritable mask.

“You may serve the first course, Lovell,” said Holmes. 

And the soup was brought out and set before us.

To my surprise it was excellent. A plain oxtail, but nicely done, as good as the soup at Marcini’s. The second course, a white fish in sauce, was also splendid, as were the lamb cutlets with spiced potatoes that followed. Lovell then produced a dish of seasoned greens for a salade verde. “Mr. Sherlock has instructed Cook to make this for you every evening, Doctor.”

I eyed my dinner companion. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I know how you, as a medical man, encourage the consumption of fresh vegetable matter, both for yourself and for your patients,” he replied. “I therefore alerted the staff.”

“A green salad stimulates the digestion and purifies the blood, just as fresh fruit in the morning energizes the body. Mr. Lovell,” I said to the butler. “Please bring a plate of greens for Mr. Sherlock as well. He will also be indulging at the evening meal for the duration of our stay.”

Holmes glowered at me. “I don’t mind a dish of peas or even a tip of asparagus provided it is covered with a decent sauce, but save me from rabbit leavings, Watson!”

“It’s good for you.” Lovell brought out another plate and placed it in front of Holmes. “Fresh watercress and braised leeks. Your system could use some cleaning out,” I said. “So eat it. All of it. Or you’ll get no dessert. There is dessert, is there not, Mr. Lovell?”

“Yes, Doctor,” said the butler. “Tarte aux pommes, with fresh cream.”

“Mr. Sherlock will get no dessert until he finishes his greens.” I sat back smugly. It felt good to command.

“You are the very devil!” Holmes exclaimed. “A worse nanny than Mrs. Hudson when you put your mind to it!”

“I have the privilege of being not only your friend, but also your physician,” I answered firmly. “I thought the rationale behind this sojourn was rest and recovery of health after the long winter’s siege – my health and yours!”

Holmes looked at me sharply. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but no longer bloodshot or bleary. I did not know if he had packed the morocco case that contained his syringes, but I had hope that he had not, hope that this stay far from the cares of London would give him a chance to uncloud his mind and purge his body of the hateful toxins with which he insulted himself.

He picked up his fork and attacked the salade verde. The watercress and leeks gave up without a fight. The rest of the meal proceeded without incident and a most delicious dessert was forthcoming for both of us.

When Lovell had cleared the last dishes away and decanted the Madeira, Holmes pulled out his pipe and began to puff thoughtfully. I felt it was now time to pose the questions that had been plaguing me.

“This meal...” I began.

“You are surprised, no doubt, at the quality of the repast in such a backwater as Sherringford,” he said. 

“Frankly, yes,” I admitted.

“You should not be,” said Holmes. “Consider the owner of this house.”

“Your brother Mycroft,” I provided.

“And what do you know about my brother?” inquired Holmes.

“He is...” I hesitated. I had only met the man on a few occasions, in every instance in connection with one of Holmes’ cases. “A substantial fellow, of keen intellect and solitary habits.”

“Quite right,” said Holmes. “He is, in fact, the most accomplished man currently working in Her Majesty’s government, although almost none know his name or even imagine his existence. His powers of deduction are, in many ways, almost equal to my own.” He paused. “Almost.”

“Of course,” I said. Holmes’s innate egotism would never allow even his own brother to prevail.

“But Mycroft is a man of inaction,” Holmes said, regarding the pipe in his hand. “Sitting in one spot for months on end, lost only in one’s own thoughts, would for my brother be heaven upon this earth. For me, it would be a torture.” Holmes sat straighter in his chair, his eyes glittering. “I must have work, Watson! I must have stimulation of the mind! But with it I must also have action of the body. The two must needs work together or else it is all in vain! Then I must numb myself. Or seek stimulation of a different kind.”

“No!” I cried. “Such recourse is beneath you! The world is full of problems to be solved. I see them every day in my medical practice. There is so much we do not know, Holmes. You are a brilliant chemist and a practiced theorist. You turn your mind to the solving crimes, but there are so many other mysteries in this world, certainly enough to fascinate any man for as long as he may live.”

Holmes smiled. “You want me to take the pulses of hysterical females and listen to the chests of dyspeptic solicitors, as you do all day? Is that how you would have me use my singular brain?”

I know he did not mean his words to sting, but they did. They stung me to the very quick. 

We had always lived in equal circumstances, Holmes and I, sharing our expenses and subsisting on the same level. I had always assumed that Holmes, as the younger son of a genteel but reduced family, was living on a modest allowance which he supplemented with his earnings as a consulting detective. His needs had never been great, and although he liked his creature comforts, they were not expensive ones. He ate the simple food Mrs. Hudson offered, smoked plain shag tobacco, and wore his suits and dressing gowns practically to rags. His only real extravagance was an insistence on hansom cabs over common omnibuses or the more plebeian underground trains in our perambulations around London.

But this great house and these deferential servants delineated a Sherlock Holmes I did not know: a spoiled aristocrat, even an autocrat, used to ordering and demanding, a gentleman to the manor born, rather than a gentleman of his own making, as was I. 

Never had I been so aware of the disparities between our stations in life. Such distinctions had never mattered before. Now they seemed an impenetrable barrier between us.

“No,” I said, unable to contain my emotions. “I would never imagine that you would lower yourself to do my work. I am not a self-proclaimed genius. Nor am I the scion of an esteemed lineage, as it appears you are. I am, in fact, no one at all – less than no one, as our society deems it, having no money, no family, and no position worth speaking of. I’m a doctor, for all that is worth. I know the lives I have saved are few, but it has not been for lack of trying. I am nothing compared to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I will always be nothing. And I have accepted that fate as my lot in life.” I drained my glass of Madeira and stood up. “You still have not answered my question.”

Holmes blinked. “What question was that?”

“The meal,” I reminded him.

“Oh.” Holmes shrugged. “Mycroft’s only physical pleasure is in gratifying his stomach, his single vice exercised at the table. He has his meals sent to him at the Diogenes Club from the Café Royal and he demands only their best. Consequently, he had his cook here trained by a Frenchman brought for the purpose from Paris. Even though Mycroft is only resident in this house for a few weeks a year, he could not countenance the thought of bland British cooking for that period. Hence, this is the best place to eat in all of West Sussex, even including the dining room at the Albert Hotel in Chichester, which is accounted the finest in the area. Does that answer your question, Watson?”

“Yes,” I said. “And now I’m going to bed.”

I turned and strode to the door. The shadows of falling night lay heavy in the corners and in the rooms beyond. A shudder coursed through me.

“I say, Watson,” I heard Holmes remark to my back. “Pray forgive me. It has been a long and tiring day.”

I did not reply, but walked on, out of the dining room and back to my alien bed chamber.


	6. “A Hot Bath Proffered”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson prepares for bed at the estate.

I found my way upstairs and down the dim hallway to my room. “Oh,” I said, as I opened the door. “I didn’t expect anyone to be in here.”

“I’m preparing your bath, sir,” said James, the youthful footman. “Mr. Sherlock told Mr. Lovell that you was to have a hot bath every evening. I’ve just been hauling up the water.” He poured a brimming bucket into the copper tub.

As I stepped further into the room I heard a familiar woof. Gladstone waddled over to me, wagging his stubby tail. “Good fellow,” I said, giving him a pat on his broad head. “Did you have a fine dinner as well?”

“Mrs. Jenkins had him down in the kitchen by the stove, but I thought he might pine there all by himself,” said James. “I hope it was right to bring him up here, sir.”

“Certainly,” I replied. “Gladstone should be quite comfortable on the rug before the fire.”

“He’s a fine dog. My old dad is the head groom and he has a bull terrier who guards the stable, but he’s not half as fine as this dog. He’s a real John Bull, he is.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Gladstone has his singular attractions.” The beast’s long tongue lolled out of his mouth and he began licking his balls vigorously.

“This should be ready in a moment, sir.” James hummed to himself as he tested the water with his elbow. I had wondered where the two footman were during dinner, Mr. Lovell being the only servant visible throughout the meal. Obviously, James and his compatriot were preparing the water for the baths while Holmes and I dined.

Looking around the cavernous room, it seemed much more welcoming with a roaring fire in the hearth, the bedclothes on large canopy bed turned down, and the steaming tub beckoning. James had rearranged my meagre belongings, hanging my trousers in the press, and setting my brush and shaving kit on the dresser next to the porcelain ewer.

“Do you want more water than this, sir?” he asked, indicating the bath.

“That seems quite sufficient,” I said. “Did Mr. Lovell say this was Mycroft Holmes’ room?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man nodded. “Mrs. Jenkins says it’s been His Lordship’s room since he was boy, just as the room next door has always been Mr. Sherlock’s.”

That stopped me cold. “Wait... what did you say? His Lordship?”

James turned pale. “I... I meant Mr. Mycroft, sir. Begging your pardon, but I misspoke.”

It had been a long day and I was sick of unsolved enigmas. “Why did you call Mycroft ‘His Lordship’? I want to know!”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Sherlock,” said the flustered footman. “I’m sorry, sir! Please don’t tell Mr. Lovell!”

“No matter, James,” I sighed, observing the young man’s distress. “I won’t say a word. I can see that this visit is to be full of unsettling revelations.” 

I was suddenly overcome with an overpowering weariness and only wished to go to my bed, but James had taken the trouble to draw the water, so I was obliged to bathe.

“I lay your dressing gown here, sir,” he said. “On the bed. And Mrs. Jenkins brought up these clean towels for you.”

“Yes, that’s a good man,” I returned. “Thank you.” Then I waited for him to leave me to my ablutions.

But he stood there, in anticipation.

“You may withdraw, James,” I said, finally.

But the footman remained. “My cousin is valet to Major Griffith who holds Campton Grange,” he offered. “He’s been teaching me how to serve a gentleman. How to brush clothes and lay out the linen. I can tie a cravat four different ways – Alfie showed me!”

“Very good,” I said. Meanwhile, the water was cooling in the tub and my bed lured me. “I certainly only know one way to tie a cravat.”

“A gentleman might want to wear it different on different days,” James explained. “Not that you’re not a gentleman! You’re quite a fine gentleman, I’m sure.”

“I’m a physician. That’s a sort of gentleman,” I said, thinking of my conversation with Holmes. “And I was an officer in the Army, so there’s also that.”

“The Army!” James’s eyes lit up. “My brother Harry – he’s the other footman – he’s wild to go into the Army! But Mum won’t hear of it. She’s the cook here.”

“Ah,” I said. I had noted a marked resemblance between the two young men – they were of an exact height and similar in coloring, which, I am told, is vital for a matched pair of footmen. It also seemed logical that in a country household many of the servants would be related, perhaps family retainers going back generations. “Your mother is a very fine cook indeed.”

James puffed up with pride. “You should taste her faggots and pudding! Better than all that Frenchy stuff!”

“I’m sure,” I coughed. “Now... as to my bath...”

James immediately reached for my cravat and then began helping me off with my shirt. 

“This is not necessary, surely!” I protested. “I can undress myself!”

“Please, sir! Let me practice on you!” James begged. “I keep hoping His Lordship – I mean, Mr. Mycroft – will take me to London and let me valet for him. I do for him whenever he’s here, but that’s almost never! I know if he took me to London I’d serve him right proudly.” James shook his head in frustration. “Anything to get out of this blasted old house! Will you please allow me, sir?”

The young footman’s eyes were pleading. But his proximity to my person unsettled me. Although he looked nothing like another young man of my brief acquaintance – Mick Wiggins being slender and dark, while James was tall, blond, and as strapping as a Guardsman – they both roused a physical response I was loath to acknowledge. 

“All right, but I will undress myself. Please get the towels.”

James grinned. “Yes, sir! Right away!”

I slipped off my clothes and swiftly submerged myself in the bath. Before I could stop him, James was vigorously scrubbing my back with a stout bath brush. And, I admit, the warm water and his cheerful ministrations soon caused me to feel more at ease than I had in ages.

“You have a scar, sir,” said James. His finger lightly touched the line transversing my shoulder that was still red even after so many years.

“Yes. I was wounded at Maiwand.”

“Where’s that, sir?”

“Afghanistan.” I gently pushed his hand away.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know it hurt you,” said James.

“It doesn’t,” I replied. “But it is not a pleasant memory.”

“Afghanistan,” said James. “That’s in India, right?”

“Nearby,” I said. “A savage and mountainous land.” I closed my eyes, thinking about it. “I almost died there. I was hit in the leg as well. That wound was not life-threatening, but it troubles me more now than the shoulder. This bath is quite soothing to it.”

“You want me to get more hot water?” James asked, eager to serve. 

“No, thank you, James. This is perfection.”

I soaked in the tub a while longer while the footman banked up the fire.

“I put a hot brick wrapped in flannel at the bottom of your bed, sir,” he said. “It’s freezing in here of a night, but that’ll make it toasty as a kitchen when you get in.”

“I appreciate your consideration, James.” I rose from the water and he immediately wrapped me in a large, soft towel. “I can dry myself, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir,” he said, backing off. “Mr. Lovell said you and Mr. Sherlock don’t have any servants. How do you gentlemen get along without them?”

“Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, has a small staff and they meet our basic needs. I had an orderly in the Army, but otherwise I have always taken care of myself, as has Holmes.”

“Let me come to London with you!” James exclaimed. “I’d valet for both you gentlemen! Gentlemen need someone to care for them, it’s not fitting otherwise. You’re ever so nice, sir, and Mr. Sherlock seems much more congenial than Mr. Mycroft. I’d be honoured to serve you!”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the funds to pay a servant.” I paused, thinking that Holmes could well afford a manservant, but would never have one; he was far too independent. “Nor do we have room in Baker Street to keep you.”

“I’d work for a pittance, sir! And I’d sleep in the closet or in the kitchen!” James insisted. “Anything to go to London!”

“I’m sorry, James, but I can’t help you.” I handed him the wet towel and put on my nightshirt and dressing gown. Then I used the chamber pot while he tidied up around the tub.

“Harry and I will empty the bath in the morning, sir, while you’re at breakfast,” said James. “Mr. Lovell says that Mr. Mycroft ought to put in a bathing room, with a tub and pipes for the water, but he’s never here long enough to feel the need for one.”

“Mrs. Hudson installed a lavatory room two years ago and it’s a wonderful convenience. Of course, the maids are always washing the clothes in the bathtub. And the water is never hot enough.”

“I’d make certain your water was always hot enough, sir,” James murmured. “If I was to work for you.”

I got into bed. James was correct – the bedclothes had been warmed very nicely by the flannel-enwrapped brick.

“Good-night, sir,” he said, turning down the gas lamps. “Ring if you need anything in the night.”

“I shall. Good-night to you, James.”

I closed my eyes, quite exhausted by the events of the day. I could hear Gladstone snoring contentedly as he lay on the rug before the dwindling hearth-fire.

But then I sat up. A sound, like a window-sash being raised. Yet I felt no draught. And the door of the chamber was firmly shut.

But something – or someone – was in the room.

I am a man of rational thought and don’t believe in spirits and other such tosh, but in such an ancient house, on such a dark night, I could well believe I was being haunted. I swallowed hard and gripped the bedclothes, feeling an eerie presence. 

It came near. Nearer...

“Shove over, Watson,” said Holmes. “It was deuced cold in that old passageway! My feet are like blocks of ice!”

And Sherlock Holmes climbed into bed beside me.


	7. “A Warm Bed Shared”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companions sharing… a bed?

“Good Lord, Holmes!” I cried. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Warming myself.”

I felt his cold feet touch my calves. “Egads, man! Put them against the brick!”

“Ah!” sighed Holmes. “That’s the ticket!”

“Are you going to tell me what you are doing in my room?” I demanded.

“This is not your room,” Holmes replied. “It’s Mycroft’s room. Perhaps you were expecting him and are sorely disappointed?” 

“Now see here, Holmes!” I sputtered. “This is too much!”

“Or...” he added with a smile. “Perhaps you thought your young footman had returned to see if he could offer more of his personal services?”

“Don’t be preposterous!” I have always known that Holmes had a depraved streak, but on this trip he seemed particularly determined to provoke me.

“Just as well,” he said, easing back on the bolster. “I thought Young Hopkins would never leave. He ever was a talker, even as a small boy.”

“Hopkins?”

“James. The footman. His mother is Mrs. Hopkins, the cook.”

“Oh, yes, so he said.” 

“He and his brother were born in this house, even as were Mycroft and myself,” Holmes commented, rustling the sheets with his restless movement. He was very close to me, too close for my mind – or body – to be completely at ease. 

“How the devil did you get in here? The door did not open and I doubt you climbed in through the window.”

“I could have done,” said Holmes. “I used to do it regularly when I was a lad. But no, I came through another venue – one known only to myself and my brother.” He yawned and stretched his legs. “That’s much better!”

The man can be infuriating! “And that is?”

“What is, my dear boy?”

“How did get into this bloody room?” I blasted.

“Well!” said Homes. “There’s no need to swear, Watson. I thought it obvious. I came through the secret passageway between my room and Mycroft’s. This house was a gift to my ancestor, Henry Sherringford-Holmes, from King James the First. My theory is that the passageway was created for the king to have effortless access from this room, which was the Royal Guest Chamber in olden times, to Henry’s room next door.”

“And why in heaven’s name would King James want to do that?” I inquired with growing exasperation.

“Rudimentary, dear boy,” answered Holmes. “Henry Sherringford-Holmes was his lover. You know your history, man! King James was infamous for lusting after beautiful young noblemen and then showering them with titles and gifts of land and jewels. Henry was young, noble, and beautiful – if his portrait in the drawing room is accurate, which I assume it is – and, apparently, not averse to the king’s attentions. The result is this house and the continued fortune of the Sherringford-Holmes family. Oh, and the title, as well.”

“Title?” I thought back to the way James – the footman, not the king – had referred to Mycroft as ‘His Lordship.’

“Yes,” Holmes said. “A title in return for a few romps in the king’s bed. Undoubtedly this very bed. And that is how pretty Harry Sherringford-Holmes became the First Earl of Sherringford! Isn’t that a fine picture?”

I was not sure whether to proclaim my unease at being in the bed of such royal infamy, at being in that same bed with my intimate friend and compatriot, or at learning that he was the scion not just of a wealthy family, but of a titled one.

“That explains something Lovell said when we arrived.”

“What was that, Watson?”

“That he was going to put me in the Earl’s room.”

Holmes sniffed. “That’s in the Georgian wing of the house. My grandfather’s room. It’s not as dark and gothic as this chamber, but it’s even colder. And much too far away! You could call for the servants all night and they’d never hear you!”

“I thought if I wanted anything I was to use the bell-pull and ring for them?”

“Poppycock!” said Holmes. “You may ring until your arm falls off, my dear fellow, no one will come. Lovell would sleep through a cyclone. And what if I needed you in the night? What if there were to be an emergency?”

“Emergency? What kind of emergency? A consulting detective emergency?” I huffed. “If I were safely installed in the Earl’s room then you wouldn’t be unable to creep through the secret passageway and make your way into my bed! Then I could get an uninterrupted night’s sleep!”

“You flatter yourself, Watson. I’m not in your bed, I’m in Mycroft’s bed! Or King James’ bed. Besides, it’s infinitely more comfortable than mine. That feather tester was old when our beloved sovereign was still a blushing girl! But Mycroft ordered this mattress new a mere fifteen years ago. It’s only logical that I should prefer it.”

Insufferable! “Then why did you not take this room to begin with and give me the other?”

Holmes frowned. “Because the other room is my room and has been all of my life! Don’t be silly, Watson! This is the best solution. Trust me. And now, I believe I will take my rest. It’s been a long and tiring day.” And with that he turned over and buried his head in the pillow.

“Wait a moment!” I protested. “You haven’t even begun to answer all my questions!”

Holmes sat up. “What else could you possibility need to know at this hour?”

I stared at the man. “You have the gall to leave me hanging with so many mysteries unexplained? For instance, the title. Mycroft is your older brother. Is he the Earl of Sherringford or is there some other relative that might spring out of a secret door and leap into my bed?”

“Don’t be absurd, Watson,” said Holmes. “There’s no other secret door in this room. In other rooms in the house, yes, but not in this one. And Mycroft is my only other living relative.”

“So Mycroft is the Earl of Sherringford?”

“Well...” Holmes paused. “Yes... and no.”

“Which is it?” I grumbled. “He either is or he isn’t!”

“That’s not a simple question,” said Holmes. “But we are not a simple family.”

“Obviously!” 

“My grandfather, Sheridan, was the Seventh Earl. All in order, no shillyshallying. He married a woman from an illustrious family, Mary Fitzalan, and they had a son, Delafield, the heir to the title.”

“Hold a moment, Holmes! I thought you said your grandmother was French. The sister of that painter fellow.”

“Vernet,” he provided. “Yvonne Vernet. Yes, she was my grandmother. Unfortunately, she was not my grandfather’s wife, the Countess of Sherringford.”

Now Holmes had truly shocked me. “You mean that...”

“Yes,” he said. “She was my grandfather’s mistress. And her son, my father Osric Holmes, was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“A bastard!” I exclaimed. “How appropriate!”

“Well, Watson. There’s no need to sound so pleased about it,” Holmes said, more than a little peeved. “Besides, Mycroft and I are not bastards. My parents were quite legally wed in the parish church not far from here. My father was the one with the sketchy provenance. My grandfather always claimed that after his noble wife died – of a broken-heart not long after the early, lamented death of their heir at age 14 – he and Mademoiselle Vernet married in Paris. But no one ever saw the proof of it.”

“So your father inherited the house, but not the title?”

“My father and mother were killed in a freak gondola accident in Venice when I was 18 years old, predeceasing the old Earl by more than a decade. When old Sheridan Sherringford-Holmes finally died at quite an advanced age, my elder brother inherited all, according to the laws of primogeniture. But as to the title – it is still in dispute. Of course, Mycroft, being the indolent creature that he is, has never pursued the matter and I doubt he ever will. And so the ancient Earldom will die with him, since I cannot conceive of a more unlikely candidate for marriage and procreation.”

“But then you would inherit the title, Holmes,” I reasoned. “You would be a peer of the realm!”

“Twaddle!” said Holmes. “What earthly use to me is a title? I have even less need of it than Mycroft. And if Mycroft is the most unlikely man to breed an heir, I am certainly the second most unlikely. I have an allowance for life that more than meets my needs, and if I am ever short of funds, I ask Mycroft for an advance. Whatever would I do with this hideous monstrosity of a house? And all the land and farms surrounding it? And to be responsible for the lives of all the servants and tenants? I like my life as it is – I am a free Englishman, Watson, as are you, unencumbered by such trifles. Who could ask for more in this life?”

A log cracked loudly on the fire and the hearth flickered briefly. I heard Gladstone groan as he dreamed his doggy dreams. 

“Wife. Children. A secure home. A place to belong. A place to feel safe,” I whispered.

“You have a place where you belong, Watson,” said Holmes. “Which is by my side, my loyal companion and partner in crime-solving. Now go to sleep. In the morning I’ll show you the most fascinating place on the estate – the hives. You’ll find them riveting. And the beekeeper is a most amusing fellow.”

Holmes rolled over and moments later was snoring loudly.

But I, who had been so tired before, found sweet sleep strangely elusive.


	8. “A Summons to Campton Grange”

When I awoke the next morning, I was alone. At least in the bed. I don’t remember Holmes leaving – or young James coming into the room to light the fire and fill the ewer with hot water for shaving.

“That’s a fine dog,” I heard him say to Gladstone. “Do you want your breakfast? And a run outdoors? Come then! Come on, boy!”

Gladstone growled in delight and yipped at the footman.

“Quiet!” said James. “That’s a good lad! You don’t want to wake your master.”

I kept my eyes closed, not yet wishing to leave the warmth of the huge bed. No wonder King James found Sherringford Hall a pleasant place to stay – I mean, besides the presence of the First Earl. The bed was quite the most comfortable I had ever spent the night in. I could feel the chill of the room and had no wish to leave its cozy confines.

“Watson! Get up, man!”

I do not know how much longer I slumbered, but that voice immediately shook me to full awareness.

“Holmes! What the devil?” I said, yawning.

Sherlock Holmes was already in his country clothes, his red cravat loosely tied. “Get up and dress! It’s an emergency!”

“A consulting detective emergency?” I quipped.

“A medical emergency,” he informed me. “There has been a summons to Campton Grange, which is the next estate over. Someone has been injured.”

That call was to me like a trumpet to an old warhorse. I leapt from my bed. “I must get my bag!”

“That’s my boy,” Holmes urged. “Shall I call your valet?”

“I don’t have a valet,” I insisted. “And I don’t need one to dress. I haven’t needed one yet and I won’t in the future, although how a lord like you has done without one all these years is a true mystery.”

“I’m not a lord,” Holmes drawled. “And never likely to be one. Let no man say that Sherlock Holmes cannot tie his own cravat!”

I could not resist leaning close to him and adjusting that same cravat. “Except when you don’t.”

Holmes sniffed and pushed my hand away. “I will meet you at the front entryway in five minutes. The trap will be waiting to take us to Campton.”

 

***

 

Campton Grange was a newish house, perhaps fifty years old, and not very impressive compared to Sherringford Hall. But it was clear that the family who lived there was prosperous and the place had a brighter prospect than Holmes’ gloomy family manse.

As the trap pulled up to the house, a tall, grey-haired man emerged, his face grave. It was obvious to me that he was a military man: he had the ramrod bearing and straightforward gaze of a man used to staring down death. But his face was also ashen and his mouth twisted with distress.

“Major Griffith,” said Holmes, alighting from the trap. “We came as swiftly as possible.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said the major. “We had word that a physician was visiting Sherringford, so I took the liberty of calling for you. You are closer than the nearest doctor, who is in Market Sherrin. I hope this does not put you out.”

“Think nothing of it!” said Holmes. “Dr. Watson is here and so am I. Please lead us to the patient.”

We followed the major into the house and up the stairs to a large, well-lighted chamber. A man was lying on the bed, the bedclothes pulled up and almost covering his face. Two females stood by, clutching handkerchiefs: the older, a small woman with greying auburn hair whose face was contorted with crying, and the younger, a tall dark-haired girl whose mein was more stoic. Mother and daughter, to be sure. A knot of servants stood behind them, seemingly at a loss for what to do.

I immediately moved to the stricken man in the bed. His eyes were glazed, but he clutched at the sheets, unwilling to release them

“Holmes, please clear the room,” I commanded.

“You heard the doctor,” said Holmes, herding the contingent to the door. “Allow him to examine the patient in peace.”

“I must stay,” asserted the major. “And my man, Barton, too.” Major Griffith indicated a well-dressed servant standing on the far side of the bed. “There are... things which you must know.”

“Very well,” I said. “But the others must leave or I cannot concentrate. And I must ask the rest of you to stand back.”

The women and other servants left the room and I endeavoured to examine my patient. There was no blood to be seen and he was conscious, if unresponsive. But he would not release the bedclothes.

“If you will aid me,” I asked the valet. 

“Yes, sir,” said Barton. “Come, Mr. Charles. The ladies have gone. Please let the doctor have a look. He’s here to help you.”

At close range I could see that my patient was young, scarcely more than a boy, perhaps 19 at the most, and strikingly handsome. And his eyes were full of fear. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out but a strangled rasp.

I gently eased the covers away.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Come and look at this!”

Holmes advanced on the bed and observed the marks on my young patient, a deep red wound ringing his neck.

“What do you think of that?” I asked.

“Well,” said Holmes. He turned and looked at Major Griffith. “Who found him?”

“I did!” the valet piped up. “I was attending the major when I heard a loud crash. I ran in here and... and saw him in a heap on the floor.” Barton winced. “I called out and the major came running.” He pointed to the ceiling. One arm of a gas fixture was bent. “I think he was only up there for a few moments, sir, but I thought he was stone dead!”

The young man in the bed shut his eyes and turned his face away, a single tear coursing down his handsome face.

“He doesn’t seem to be in any present danger,” I said. “But his throat may well be damaged. And he can’t speak, so it is possible his larynx was seriously injured. He will need to see a specialist about that. It may mean an operation.”

“Quite.” Holmes began pacing up and down, glancing up at the ceiling, taking in the appointments of the room. “So tell me, Major,” he said. “Your wife and daughter don’t know what has happened, do they?”

“No,” admitted Major Griffith. “I would not let them in until Barton and I had gotten Charles into bed. And Barton took away the... the rope and righted the chair. I wished to spare them... this... this disgrace!”

“But you cannot keep this incident a secret,” Holmes observed. “This is not a momentary fancy by a foolish boy. This is serious business! My friend Watson’s business is to heal your son’s wounds, but my business is to get to the bottom of enigmas. Which is why I must ask the obvious question – why would your son want to hang himself?”

Major Griffith slumped down onto the chair and covered his face in his hands. “I cannot tell you, Mr. Holmes! If I do, it will be the ruination of our family!”

“And if you don’t, Major,” said Holmes, more gently. “It could mean the death of your son. So which will it be?”

 


	9. “A Confession in Part”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Griffith's story.

“Now see here, Holmes!” the major thundered. “I summoned the doctor to treat my son, not to have the Earl’s busybody brother stick his nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“I’m only attempting to ascertain the situation,” Holmes said calmly.

“Blast the situation!” Major Griffith’s face was red with anger. “This is none of your affair! I will handle my own son in the way I see fit!”

“And the way you see fit has caused your son to try to hang himself,” said Holmes, taking out his pipe and lighting it. “So that has worked well, hasn’t it?”

“Damn you to Hell, sir!” the major sputtered. “I’ll have you thrown out of this house on your ear!”

“I don’t think my brother Mycroft would look kindly upon that,” returned Holmes, blowing out a puff of smoke in the direction of the enraged major.

As this little exchange between Holmes and Major Griffith was playing out, my patient was becoming increasingly agitated. He tried to sit up and speak, but he was obviously in great distress. The valet, Barton, endeavoured to soothe him, but to no avail.

“Gentlemen!” I interjected. “If you must argue, please take your disagreement elsewhere! My patient needs peace and quiet, as do I if I am to treat him!”

As the major blinked and gaped at his stricken son, much of the fight seemed to go out of him, his shoulders slumping in dejection. “Come into my library, Holmes. We will discuss this further in private.”

“Lead the way.” Holmes cast me a triumphant wink as he followed Major Griffith out of the room.

“So, Barton,” I said to the valet as we propped up Young Griffith with extra pillows. “Am I correct in surmising that you are the cousin of the footmen at Sherringford, James and Henry?”

“Yes, Doctor!” said Alfie Barton, brightening. “Campton Grange is part of the larger Sherringford estate – the major is the Earl’s tenant – so many of us in service here were trained at the Hall. My mother and Mrs. Hopkins are sisters, and my own sister is a parlour maid there. Jamie and Harry and I was all born at Sherringford and raised up there.”

“I wondered how they knew there was a physician in residence,” I commented.

“There’s not much what is a secret in these parts, especially with the servants,” claimed Alfie. “We know everything going on, both above and below stairs.”

“And what do you know about this matter?” I probed, trying to use Holmes’ own methods of obtaining information. “You are the major’s manservant, but I imagine you also valet for his son, is that not true?”

Alfie looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Yes, Doctor,” he conceded. “Mr. Charles and me – well, I’ve known him all his life.” He unconsciously stroked his young master’s troubled brow. “This is a small world ’round here, sir.”

“And there is little hidden between a master and his servant, as you attested before,” I remarked. “So why would a gentleman of good family want to end his life? A young man with seemingly all the attributes society deems necessary for happiness? Exceeding good looks, fortune, two loving parents, a fine home – what more could be desired?”

“Alfred...” Charles Griffith suddenly rasped out. “Do not... tell!”

“Don’t pain yourself, sir!” Alfie cried. “The doctor only wants to help you!”

“N... no!” And the young gentleman began to weep piteously.

I opened my bag and retrieved a small bottle of laudanum and a spoon. “This will allow you to sleep, Charles,” I said, giving him a minor dose. “Let yourself rest for now. Things will look brighter when you awaken.”

But Charles Griffith shook his head in stout denial even as he slipped into a unsettled slumber. 

“Poor Mr. Charles! Is he going to be all right, Doctor?” Alfie asked with genuine concern.

“There’s a nasty burn from the rope on his neck, but it is not life-threatening. And he can speak, so I doubt there is permanent damage to his larynx. But whatever it is that caused him to attempt to take his own life still remains. If he is in so much despair, he may attempt it again – and next time succeed!”

“That mustn’t happen, Doctor!” Alfie declared. “Mr. Charles is a good fellow, but he... he...”

“You can tell me, Barton,” I coaxed. “If the lad is in trouble, then my intimate companion Mr. Sherlock Holmes will come to his aid, as he has for countless others, both great and humble. The major said it would be the ruination of their family, but surely it can’t be as bad all that.”

“To the major’s mind it is,” said Alfie, lowering his voice. “It’s blackmail, Doctor.”

I sighed. “That is not an uncommon crime. Mr. Holmes has solved many a case of blackmail, including one for a very exaulted personage involving some compromising letters.”

Alfie’s eyes widened. “This was about letters, too, Doctor!” He paused, unsure whether to offer further intelligence. “Love letters.”

Not a surprising development. As Holmes has often reiterated to me, blackmail is a vile crime that requires physical evidence, and inappropriate epistles are a common avenue for a scoundrel to harass a careless correspondent.

“Love letters are often the means by which a besotted man is caught by his own foolish sentiments,” I lectured. “He pours out his heart to an unworthy female, who then uses his tender feelings against him. I can see why an impressionable young gentleman like Charles Griffith should feel his whole world had ended with the revelation of a thwarted love.”

“Yes,” Alfie agreed. “But this is... is something worse, Doctor. It isn’t the one who the letters was written to who demanded money from him, but another, an unscrupulous villain! He drained poor Mr. Charles of his allowance and even caused him to pawn some valuables he inherited from his grandfather. And when that was gone, he borrowed money from his sister, Miss Anne. But when he could no longer pay, the cad went to the major. He showed him one of the letters and said he had more. And he threatened to reveal the contents and leave poor Charles in disgrace!”

“Surely at that juncture the police should have been called!” I asserted.

“No!” breathed Alfie. “Not the authorities! That would certainly be the worst thing possible! Then it would surely be made public and Mr. Charles and the family would never hold their heads up in society again!”

“Why in heaven’s name?” I inquired. “What was in those letters that was so damning?”

“Not so much what was in the letters, which was full of lover’s twaddle and silly verses,” said Alfie. “But who they was written to. For they was addressed to another man. And not a gentleman of Mr. Charles’ own station, which would be bad enough, but to a common Mary-Ann! A fellow what displays himself in a low public house in lady’s garments and then sells himself for a few shillings to any man with the price. That’s who Mr. Charles was writing to, who he fancied he was in love with! And this is the conclusion!”

I was truly taken aback by Alfie’s revelations. My mind immediately flew to the Salisbury and other such ‘theatrical’ establishments. But I imagine the low dives where such she-men ply their trade are not to be found on St. Martin’s Lane or even Charing Cross, but deep in the shadows of the City, far from the knowledge of decent folk.

“I... I have heard of such places,” I acknowledged with a shudder. “But I never dreamed that an attractive young gentleman could be trapped in such a sordid web!”

Alfie Barton shook his head sadly. “Now you see why the young master wanted to off himself! The guilt of it was tearing him apart, but when his father found out the truth it was more than he could bear! I blame myself, Doctor! I should’ve seen it coming! I should’ve watched him like a hawk!”

“Buck up, man!” I urged “There is nothing anyone can do if a chap is determined to harm himself. But you were right to tell me the truth. My friend Mr. Holmes will get to the bottom of this!”

Alfie seized my hand and squeezed it. “That’s good of you, Doctor! If Mr. Sherlock can see it clear to help Mr. Charles, then he’s a fine, fine fellow to my mind – even if he is the Earl’s brother!”

I raised an eyebrow at the valet. “And what, pray, is wrong with Mr. Mycroft?”

Alfie grinned at me slyly. “Why what everyone knows about all the Sherringford-Holmes family, Doctor – that they’re all stone crazy! But if he can ease Mr. Charles’ mind and catch this blackmailer, then I won’t hold being a loony against Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”


	10. “A Stroll Across the Downs”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson take a walk and have a talk.

I met Holmes on the steps in front of Campton Grange. The major had not seen him out. In fact, the house, which was full of family and servants, seemed strangely deserted, as if holding its breath.

The trap was waiting for us to ascend.

“How is your leg today, Watson?” Holmes inquired.

“Solid,” I replied. “And I have my stick, as always.”

“Could you manage a walk of two or three miles? It will be shorter if we cross the downs.”

I thought of the miles upon miles I had walked in the Afghan mountains, never knowing if the next step would be my last. But here I was safe in my own land, with a stout companion who would never fail me at my side.

“A mere stroll, Holmes.” I glanced at the clearing sky. “And the morning is rather fine.”

“Drive on, Webb,” he instructed the coachman. “And inform Lovell that we will take a hot breakfast when we reach the Hall, since the major did not see fit to offer us any sustenance.” 

Without delay we set off across the fields.

“What did you learn, Watson?” said Holmes, getting directly to the point.

I outlined what Alfie Barton had related to me about the blackmail plot.

Holmes nodded. “I am willing to wager that Barton knows more than he is saying. He strikes me as a loyal servant who is overly fond of his young master and wishes to protect him.”

“I imagine you are right,” I agreed. “Did the major offer any further information?”

“Only reluctantly,” said Holmes. “Major Griffith is, of course, fearful that news of his son’s dilemma will become common knowledge. But most of all, he wishes to keep the ignoble details from the ears of his wife and daughter. That may well prove impossible.”

“The servants must already know all,” I said. “Barton hinted as much.”

“Servants are the eyes and ears of an estate, just as my Irregulars are the eyes and ears of London,” Holmes stated. “They know all, usually without being told. Secrets are the air that they breathe.”

“Quite.” 

Hearing Holmes speak of the Irregulars made me think of Mick Wiggins. I did not want to be reminded once again of that quizzical young fellow, but he always seemed to be intruding upon my thoughts.

“But this blackmail plot is not as much of a surprise to the major as might be imagined,” Holmes continued.

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that Young Griffith was sent down from Oxford last year for being involved in a contretemps with a coterie of like-minded young gentlemen,” Holmes related. “They were would-be Aesthetes in residence at Magdalen College, many of them titled or the sons of peers, who fancied themselves poets and rebels against convention. Now, I can understand their impulse to defy the dictates of a narrow-minded society, for I have felt that impulse myself. But their error was in seducing the young son of a respectable townsman into their debaucheries. The more connected members of the circle escaped punishment, but the more vulnerable boys, including Young Griffith, were promptly cashiered. The entire incident was hushed up and poor Mrs. Griffith was told her son had merely failed to pass his exams. Unfortunately, that was a falsehood intended for the family to save face.”

“So Charles’ father already knew of his son’s... proclivities?”

“He knew,” said Holmes. “But the boy assured him it was merely a youthful indiscretion and that he had finished with such depraved activities. Then Charles lodged himself in London with the intention of petitioning for readmittance to his college. In fact, he was still running wild with his friends from Oxford. And these young gentlemen had introduced him to the more sordid pleasures of the City, including those offered by places such as the Bishop’s Nose and the Black Cat.”

I frowned. “I have never heard of those, Holmes. Are they taverns?”

“They are public houses, of a kind,” said Holmes. “But they are also houses of assignation for gentlemen with a very specific taste. One is in Lambeth, near the river, and the other is in Holborn. But these are only two of the most notorious gathering places for Mary-Anns and their clients. There are others that are more discreet, but no less infamous – the Crown in Charing Cross, the Mermaid down by the Eastern docks...” Holmes paused for a moment in our walk and brought out his pipe, fumbling for his tobacco and box of matches.

“Here,” I said, taking out my own matchbox. I lit his pipe and watched him take a draw. 

Holmes smiled with satisfaction. “Thank you, Watson. You always know what I need, when I need it.”

“It’s my close proximity to you for all these years,” I answered.

We continued crossing the fields. “What was I saying? Oh, yes, certain public houses. There is also the Salisbury. It’s quite prominent on St. Martin’s Lane. You know the spot, Watson. We have passed it many times on our way to and from the theatre. Like the Crown, it is a favorite with actors, poets, and artists who have a taste for boys.”

“Yes,” I said, turning my eyes away from Holmes’ gaze. “I think I know the place. Quite gaudy, at least from the outside.”

“If you entered that establishment, you would be shocked to see many of our finest men of letters cavorting there with common grooms, apprentices, and telegraph boys who supplement their incomes assuaging the perverse appetites of avowed sodomites.”

“Yes.” I took out my handkerchief and mopped my brow. The exercise was making me exceedingly warm. “I would certainly be shocked.”

“Of course, it is only the dictates of so-called proper Christian society that have proscribed such relations. Any man who has read the Greeks, especially Plato, would know that the Ancients had a much more enlightened view of men who desired other men. And Renaissance Italy offers us Michelangelo and Leonardo and their sublime creations as proof that sodomy need not preclude genius. Even the Immortal Bard wrote blissful sonnets in praise of a beautiful boy.”

“I thought literature and art were beyond the sphere of your interest, Holmes,” I opined.

“Nonsense!” Holmes exclaimed. “I know the Classics and I know the treasures of our native tongue. You can say many things about my profligate grandfather, the Seventh Earl, but you can never say that he neglected my education. Both Mycroft and I were steeped in the Humanities, as well as the more practical pursuits of Mathematics and the Sciences. We had the finest tutors available.”

“I bow to your private tutelage,” I said. “I suffered through years of a bleak Jesuit boarding school, followed by a sojourn in a seminary in Holland.”

“Did you?” said Holmes. “I didn’t know. But I’m not surprised, Watson. You have a certain Jesuitical turn of mind. I find it very attuned to my own way of thinking, which is distinctly un-English.”

“You didn’t know because you have never asked!” I retorted. “In all the years we have been together, you have never asked me a single question about my past, my family, my education, or my religious upbringing! Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“No,” said Holmes. “It does not. If you had wanted me to know any of those things, I trust you would have spoken up about it. It is not in my nature to pry.”

“Not in your nature to pry!” I stopped dead in my tracks. “You are the most probing fellow in the entire universe! You will not eat, sleep, or take a moment’s ease until you have gotten every detail out of a problem you have undertaken to solve. Yet about me, your closest companion, you know next to nothing!”

Holmes looked at me fondly, but absently. “I know all I need to know about you, my dear boy.”

“And what is that, pray?” I huffed.

“That you are the most loyal, truest, and satisfactory friend and compatriot a man could ever hope for,” said Holmes. “And if I were a man who prayed, I would pray every day not to lose your good will and your constant companionship.”

I stared at Holmes, open-mouthed, not knowing what to say.

“Come, Watson,” said Holmes, linking his arm with mine. “Let’s hurry! I’m deucedly hungry! It was quite unneighborly of the major not even to offer us so much as a crumb of toast or a cup of coffee while we were at Campton Grange. I will need something to feed my body while my brain feeds on thoughts of blackmail and sodomy!”

And Holmes and I lengthened our strides as we made our way across the downs of Sherringford.


	11. “An Account of a Rigourous Education”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson begins the story of his youth and education.
> 
> This is the beginning of John Watson's backstory, which will be vital to the mystery to come!

Back at the Hall, Holmes ate a hearty breakfast, but I found my appetite had fled. I choked down a scrap of toast and some weak tea and pushed my plate away.

“Not hungry, dear boy?” asked Holmes as he tossed a sausage to Gladstone, who was at the ready beside his chair.

“A trifle under the weather,” I replied. “I think I shall repair to the library and take my ease for the afternoon. Perhaps I’ll feel better this evening.”

This was not to Holmes’ liking. “Dash it, man! I wanted to show you the hives! They are extraordinary. And the beekeeper is a droll fellow. His hives provide honey for all the villages in the area. There is some in this pot, I believe. Lovell – this is the Sherringford honey, is it not?”

“Yes, Mr. Sherlock,” said the butler. “And the cream is from our dairy. Most of the food is from the estate.”

“See, Watson?” said Holmes. “Perhaps there is an advantage to being lord of the manor – all this fine and fresh provender. If Mycroft lived here full time, he’d be twice the size he is now!”

“If that were the case he’d hardly fit into his closed carriage,” I remarked.

“Ha!” Holmes brayed. “Capital, Watson! I should force my brother to come out and take a turn in the ring with me. Can you picture that? He always used to get the better of me when we were lads – he was so much older and larger. But the tables are turned now! Yes, the tables are turned!” He bit off another piece of sausage and threw the remainder to the dog.

“He’ll be puking up all night if you give him all that grease,” I warned.

“Grease?” said Holmes. “Nonsense! These are far from greasy. And they are your favorite kind, sage and onion.”

My stomach turned queasily. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the library. Are there any newspapers, Mr. Lovell?”

“We have the ‘Times’ from yesterday,” he replied. “I’m afraid today’s edition will not arrive until this evening. But we have a morning paper from Chichester.”

“Those will do,” I said. And I hurried from the dining room.

James was waiting outside the door to direct me to the library. “You could get lost in this house if you don’t where you’re going, sir.” He guided me into another, newer wing of the house and opened the door to a large Georgian-style room lined with books from floor to ceiling. 

“Thank you, James. I imagine I’d need a map to find my way back from here.” 

“There’s always someone around to help you find your way,” he said. “I’ll light the fire for you, sir. This chair is the one the old Earl always used to sit in.” He indicated a worn wingback near the fireplace. “If you need a book, just ask and I’ll try to find it.”

“I think the papers will be enough,” I said, settling in the chair. It was comfortable. I tried to imagine Holmes’ grandfather sitting in this very spot, staring at the crackling fire. It made me aware more than ever how little I knew about my closest, nay, my only real friend.

Holmes’ statement on our walk had left me shaken. He’s a man who rarely expresses emotion, yet this was, for him, an emotional declaration if ever I’d heard one. I wasn’t certain how to parse it – or if I should even attempt to. Holmes is such a confounding creature at the best of times. I often hesitate to take what he says to heart. He also lives to vex me, mainly because he can. Yes, he plays me like he plays his damned violin – sometimes with such sweetness it stirs my soul, but other times with a discordance that makes me want to punch him in the jaw! 

I detest having my emotions played on. It’s ill of him to do so.

And seeing that boy, Young Griffith, brought to such despair that he would wish to take his own life shook me to the very core.

How can a young man survive an attempt of that kind? To prefer death to life is anathema to me. I, who fought so powerfully to live when my life was thought forfeit more than once. There were times when I came close to giving up, but I always rallied, always hoped a better fate awaited me than death in a far away country. And so I lived – wounded and a shadow of myself in my prime, but alive. And with a life still yet to live.

And when I was Young Griffith’s age, death was the farthest thing from my mind.

I was born in Guildford, south of London. It’s an old town, quiet, almost somnambulant, but that’s the way my father liked it. He was a solicitor, from an old Northern and Catholic family, solidly middle class. Things have changed since the laws against Catholics were reformed in the decades before my birth, but they are still an insular and clannish breed. Most of my father’s clients were other Catholics, and he married a girl with an Irish background whose father was a doctor who also served the Catholic community of Surrey and Middlesex.

My mother was a beauty. I know many men say that of their mothers, but in my case it was true. I remember her beauty, although she died when I was six, giving birth to a sister who also died. There was a portrait of her that was my father’s pride and joy – it hung in his study and when he was out I often crept in to gaze at it. She was tall and slender, forever captured in a pale blue dress, her hair as yellow as the sun and her eyes the same shade as the dress. Every person who crossed our door in my childhood stopped and stared at me, exclaiming, “He’s the picture of Marianne! That golden hair and those eyes!” And the women always kissed me and some of them wept, remembering my mother. The servants doted on me, petting me and forever telling me what a pretty lad I was. And I was a happy child, believing the world was in love with me.

All the world – with two exceptions. My father and my brother could not stand the sight of me.

As a boy I never understood it. But as I grew older I came to believe that my resemblance to my mother, whose loss they could never reconcile, made my very existence painful to them. Seeing me so alive and with such high spirits always put my father in a black mood. And my brother, a decade older and constantly away at school, was a shadowy attendant at holidays and other special occasions. I barely remember him speaking more than a few sentences to me before I, too, was sent away to school at the age of ten.

The next six years were bleak ones. The school I attended was the same one my brother had passed through, a strict Jesuit establishment on the coast of Yorkshire, facing the wild and windy North Sea. The order of each day was prayer and study, prayer and more study. The Jesuits did not go in much for the games that are the rage at most public schools in England, although we did play cricket, learned to shoot and ride, and had rudimentary lessons in music and art. But the main study of these stern men in their black Spanish robes was Logic and Latin. On those two things everything else hinged. And if you stumbled in either you felt the pain across the back of your hand, or, if it were a more serious error, across your backside. And I don’t mean the simple swat of a cane. No, the Fathers knew how to inflict pain in ways that make me cringe to think of so many years later. I often fancy I know what the Inquisition must have been like for those poor Jews and heretics, for we were all subjected to the same flinty-eyed Inquisitors.

In my early years there I was so tender-hearted it’s a wonder I survived, but I did survive, and that regimen tempered me, like a steel blade is tempered. I was never the top pupil, but as the years ground on I felt the sting of punishment less and less. At thirteen I became aware that the Fathers had singled me out, for what I wasn’t sure. They gave me privileges, allowed me to go on special retreats reserved for the older boys, encouraged me to seek them out for guidance. And then I realized that they wanted me for one of their own. My father even mentioned it during a rare visit home. My brother had already gone into my father’s law office, so, my father said, he had thought to have me follow my maternal grandfather’s profession as a doctor, but the head of my school had spoken to him and so I was to enter the Jesuit seminary as soon as I was old enough.

It never occurred to me to protest. This was the life I knew and I was proud to have been selected. My teachers drummed it into me that their order were the Soldiers of Christ, beholden to no one but the Holy Father in Rome, the elite of the Mother Church. I must toughen myself and prepare myself like a soldier, both mind and body. And that is what I did.

The other thing that never occurred to me to wonder about was whether I had a desire to be a priest or a vocation for such a life. That was never a question. It was assumed that I believed and that being selected was the proof. Now all I had to do was be worthy of the honour.

One thing that set the Jesuit schools apart then, and still do, is the way the students were strictly kept at all times. I have heard a multitude of horror stories from men who endured the English public schools. Even the highest, like Eton and Harrow, allowed the boys to prey upon one another, the older ones venting their lusts upon the younger lads. The custom of fagging – a junior boy becoming the servant and property, body and soul, to a senior – is an old and vicious one, but one that was unknown in my school. Sins of the flesh were guarded against every minute of the day. A priest was always on duty in the dormitories, seeing that each boy kept to his own bed. ‘Particular friendships’ and crushes between boys were expressly forbidden, boys never being allowed even to walk in pairs, but always in groups of three or more. In fact, when I later heard stories of the shameless things that went on in the schools of my peers, I could scarcely believe them. It seemed that only boys who were privately educated at home, as were Holmes and his brother, and those in strict religious establishments such as mine, escaped being debauched. 

Therefore, I grew up a complete innocent. What I knew of the fair sex was from memories of my mother and from the books of Sir Walter Scott that were my favorites. I took comfort in escaping in these stories about long-ago times, of knights and ladies, Border raiders and bold highwaymen, gypsies and maidens in distress. When I should have been reading the Vulgate or translating Greek, I steeped myself in romances. I even managed to read books that were forbidden to ‘weaker’ minds – Fielding and Defoe and French novels full of shocking revelations. But still I preferred Scott. He fired my head with thoughts of adventure, of thrilling times past, of distant lands and exotic climes. I thought of myself as one of those bold warriors, rescuing the wronged, aiding the helpless. I told my confessor that I wanted to be a missionary and travel to heathen territories and he agreed it was a fine ambition to which I would be well-suited.

At the age of 16 I was dispatched to Holland, to a Jesuit seminary surrounded by water, to be trained as a missionary priest. What I remember most about the place was that dank canal water. You could not travel anywhere except by boat and the country was low and flat and wet, the sky always a foreboding grey. Or so it seemed.

It was there that I began to dream. I suppose I was a late bloomer, but when my body finally came of age, it came with a vengeance. My nocturnal sins visited me almost every night, no matter how much I prayed, fasted, purged, and even scourged myself to stop it. Nothing helped. I sickened and wilted, unable to support the guilt I felt. I knew my body – young, healthy, and full of uncontrollable animal spirits – had failed me.

Finally, the superior there took pity on me and sent me to Amsterdam. I think he was afraid I’d die it I did not taste of the sins of the flesh at least once before I professed my solemn vows.

I tasted them. 

And I never returned to the seminary.

 


	12. “An Interlude in Italy”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson continues the story of his "education" as a young man.

Having lost my innocence at 17 in a house of ill fame in Amsterdam, I set about discovering what else in life I had been missing.

My father died while I was in the Dutch seminary, so I had a small allowance from my inheritance, as well as a sum of money in trust for my education, whatever I should choose to pursue. But I was sick of study, sick of being cooped up, sick of being told what to do from morning until night. Therefore I decided to remain on the continent for at least a little while longer.

I enjoyed myself in Amsterdam. I found the ladies of easy virtue agreeable and they seemed to like me. But all ladies seemed to like me. My mirror told me I was handsome, even girlishly pretty, blond and blue-eyed like my mother. But I was also strong of body, hardened by my years with the Jesuits. I could get by on small rations, my feet were nimble, and my hands quick with a sword. I was also a dead-eye shot. I thought of the Army, obviously, but before I turned myself over to another authoritative institution, I wanted to taste a little of the world as a free man. With my few possessions in a small pack, I set off across Europe to see what I could see.

I headed first into Germany. I knew a bit of the language and had read Goethe, being the Romantic that I was, so I walked through that land wide-eyed, taking in the mountains and valleys, the gingerbread villages and fairy-tale castles. And everywhere I found congenial ladies. Or, shall I say, they found me.

I had little spare money to pay for companionship, but I swiftly found that I did not need it to attract the notice of the fairer sex. In fact, there were friendly females everywhere I turned – barmaids, serving girls, widows who offered rooms for rent, married ladies of a certain age who invited a lonely young Englisher to tea, even a black-eyed gypsy in a caravan by a deserted roadside. I may have been a late-bloomer physically, but I was quickly catching up in that phase of my education.

But while the Fathers had warned me about the Daughters of Eve and their ensnaring temptations, there was one aspect of carnal knowledge that they had neglected to warn me about. For it was not only ladies who found me appealing. 

At first I was mystified by the attentions of some gentlemen who went out their way to make my acquaintance. The first was an iron-jawed Prussian military man who sat down next to me in a beer garden in Munich. He spoke perfect but heavily-accented English, asking my name and where I was travelling. I answered that I was footloose, seeing the sights, heading perhaps to Italy. He bought me a stein of beer and then another. And another. I soon found myself back at his lodgings. I was willing to share digs for the night, but he had something other than sleep in mind. In my complete innocence, I swear I did not know what it was he wanted. And he was perplexed, I’m sure, by my guileless ignorance. After grappling with me for some minutes, he finally gave up. We were both the worse for drink and soon passed out on the narrow bed. I awoke in the morning with a raging headache – and something else raging in my lower extremities. The military man was also standing at attention. I still was not certain about the situation, but I knew instinctively that it would be best if I were to remove myself, which I did forthwith. I scrambled into my clothes, grabbed my pack, and left Munich immediately, heading south towards the border with the Austrian Empire.

There I paused for a while in Salzburg, listening to Mozart, marveling at the Alps, and eating cream pastries. Then I took a train into Italy, stopping in Venice, Florence, and thence on to Rome, the Eternal City.

One thing I found in every city in Italy was an English expatriate community already well-entrenched. They readily welcomed me, although I had no money or connections. But surrounded by foreigners, we were all Englishmen together and that was enough. They housed me, fed me, lent me money, and advised me on the ways and wiles of the Europeans, as well as directing me to the significant sites of interest.

Some of these Englishmen (and Englishwomen, too) in exile were there to escape the notorious British weather, either for matters of health or preference. Others were students of History or Art, steeping themselves in the Cradle of Western Culture. 

And still others seemed to be in more dubious exile, gentlemen, mostly wealthy and often titled, who had eschewed their native land for reasons I found obscure. They gathered in the cafés of Rome and Florence, or in villas along the Grand Canal, or they loitered in Saint Mark’s Square, smoking and gossiping as they watched the passing parade. These men intrigued and puzzled me. They also took a keen interest in me and my welfare. They were constantly inviting me to visit them in their rooms, or to take in some interesting local taverns that were off the beaten path, or to travel with them to points south – Naples, Capri, Sicily, Greece, and even Morocco. I would not have to worry about money, they would be happy to pay my way. And they offered gifts, sometimes small tokens of wine or candy, but other times more expensive things, silver cigarette cases or even articles of jewelry. But I consistently declined such offerings.

One hot afternoon, as I sat in a Roman café with an elderly English lady who had befriended me, she upbraided me for consorting with the city’s most infamous sodomites.

“Sodomites?” I exclaimed. “Whatever do you mean, Lady Percy?”

“Don’t be coy, John!” she chastised. “Have you not taken money from Lord Brigham and that loathsome Arthur Spencer? Do you not know they are the most notorious pair who have ever been banished from England and forced to take refuge in Italy, where buggery is not simply tolerated, but practically a requirement?”

“Certainly not!” I insisted. “They offer, but I always refuse. Then they laugh and offer me more. I thought it was a game to them to try to wear down my resistance.”

“And so it is!” she snorted. “They are competing to see which of them can be the first to get his prick into your bumhole, you foolish boy!”

“Lady Percy!” I was truly astounded. I had never heard a woman of gentle birth speak so crudely in my entire life. “I cannot believe you would say such things!”

“Oh, pish tosh!” she retorted. “Better I say them than you let that poxy Lord Brigham do them to you! Are you such a naïf, my dear, that you don’t know what they want a beautiful boy like you for?”

I was beginning to get deucedly uncomfortable. “I thought they... they liked me! Mr. Spencer knows everything about Roman history and we speak Latin together. He took me to the Vatican and we heard Mass! And Lord Brigham wants to take me to Naples to see the ruins of Pompeii and gaze upon Mount Vesuvius, and then explore the Villa of Tiberius on Capri. That is why I came to Italy, to learn and see all that I can see!”

“What you will see if you go to Naples with Freddy Brigham is the ceiling of a cheap hotel, because he will have you on your back the entire you are there – and he will then share you with all of his equally odious friends!” said Lady Percy. “I hate to be blunt, John, but you need to open your eyes! Did your father not warn you? Have you no elder brothers to guide you in avoiding such men?”

I fear I was almost in tears from shock and embarrassment. “My father is dead and my brother cares nothing for me. I have spent half my life in a Jesuit school and then the seminary and nothing like this was ever imagined there! I... I had my... my first woman only three months ago. I cannot believe I am confiding such things to a lady, but it is true! I have wondered why some gentlemen make much of me, but I never dreamed it was because they wished to... to...” I stopped, unable to continue.

I still wasn’t certain what it was these gentlemen, or the Prussian soldier for that matter, wanted to do to me. Put their pricks up my bumhole? That’s what Lady Percy said, and if that was sodomy, then I had to bow to her superior knowledge. 

“Lord, my boy!” she said. “Don’t take on so! I know you receive the attentions of women as your due, so you should expect that men with a taste for boys will also pursue you, but don’t act like a prudish schoolgirl when it happens. It is the way of the world, John. I merely warn you against being preyed upon by scoundrels such as Brigham and Spencer. If you wish to take a male lover, find one worthy of you. With your beauty you could easily catch a prince or, if you wish to remain here in Rome, a Cardinal. But I would suggest you stick to married women. They are less trouble in the long run, although they won’t give you such expensive presents. And their husbands might take a shot at you now and again, but that is the chance you must take for love.”

“I think I had better leave Italy,” I said, pushing back my chair and standing up. The entire country suddenly seemed full of hideous dangers. “Now I am afraid to go anywhere!”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Lady Percy. “Sit down and drink your coffee. You won’t leave until you are ready to leave. Don’t let those perverts scare you off. Remember that the world is full of evil and you must learn to recognize it for what it is. Only then can you decide if you wish to embrace it or leave it alone. Otherwise you should turn tail and run back to your seminary where you will be safe – although from what I know of some priests, you won’t be all that safe!” 

Now I was truly sick with trepidation. Was what Lady Percy said true? I was virtually alone in the world. Did that mean I was ripe to be the victim of every predator who set eyes upon me? For the first time in my life I cursed my good looks and thought I might be a happier fellow if I were plain and unappealing.

“Tonight you will attend my salon,” Lady Percy instructed. “There will be cards and music and conversation. Wear something suitable with a decent cravat. And if you are approached by someone who desires you, either male or female, be a man about it. It is time you grew up, John. Italy is the perfect school for learning about life. Tonight will be your first real lesson.”

Little did I understand how prescient Lady Percy would prove to be. For that night at her villa on the Esquilino I met the Irishman.

 


	13. “An Unsettling Acquaintance”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Percy's party.

I will not name him because any name I give him will be of no consequence. He offered me a name that night at Lady Percy’s, but it was not his true one. In fact, I am sure none of the names he ever used was his true one, just as none of the stories he told about his history was the true one. They may have contained grains of truth here and there, but that is all.

But one thing I was certain of, he was an Irishman. That he never denied. And so I will call him the Irishman. That is enough.

I had obtained a suit of clothes from a wealthy young gentleman who left Rome to return to England and discarded his extra belongings so he wouldn’t have to take them on the train. The suit was almost new and I took it to a local tailor who altered it to fit as if had been made especially for me. I went to the market near my pensione and bought a length of silk and the tailor made me a fine cravat for only a few pence. Thus, I was ready to attend Lady Percy’s salon in clothing I wouldn’t be ashamed to stand up in.

Lady Percy’s villa was on the highest hill in Rome and commanded a magnificent view of the city. I arrived on foot, but easily mingled with the ladies and gentlemen pulling up at the door in private carriages. I took Lady Percy’s words to heart – I was there not to be intimidated by the company, but to continue my education. I may not have been rich, but I was as much a gentleman in birth and education as any Englishman there. Besides, I had discovered that good looks and pleasing manners served as an entry to almost any venue – and I had both to spare.

“My dear child!” said Lady Percy, kissing me on the cheek. “How delightful you look!” Then she adjusted my cravat. “You need a stickpin to finish the effect. I will give you one of my late husband’s. He won’t be needing it any time soon.” And then she laughed. Lord Percy had been dead for over twenty years.

“I thought you warned me about accepting expensive gifts,” I returned.

“I didn’t say it was an expensive stickpin, John,” she said, tapping me lightly with her fan. “An old woman like myself may give gifts to a beautiful young man without fear of scandal, that is the privilege of age. Now go and take refreshment. There is music in the drawing room and cards in the blue salon. Enjoy yourself, my dear.” 

I took a glass of champagne and made my way through the rooms, observing. I was the youngest guest and certainly the poorest, but I knew I looked well in my re-made suit and silken cravat, so I was feeling confident. I also noted that none of the ‘infamous sodomites’ were present – Lady Percy had apparently crossed Lord Brigham and his crowd off her guest list.

A trio of cello, violin, and flute was playing, so I listened for a while. Then I moved off to the card room. Some ladies were playing at whist, but a table of gentlemen in the corner were engaged in a game with which I was unfamiliar. They were seriously intent on their cards and gambling heavily – I saw piles of money that made my palms itch. I squinted, trying to understand what the game was about.

“Poker,” said a deep voice behind me. “‘It is an American form of Commerce.”

“I don’t know how to play Commerce,” I said, turning around. I was met with a long, thin face and a pair of cold, piercing grey eyes under a shining cap of black hair. “We weren’t permitted card games at my school.”

“And what school was that?” asked the man. He was tall and exceedingly lean, in his mid-30’s or thereabouts, lounging against the doorframe and smoking a long French cigarette.

“A Jesuit school. In Yorkshire.”

“Ah,” he hissed. “And are you a little Jesuit?”

Something crept up my spine, like I’d seen a snake. “No. I’m a free Englishman. I profess no religion – anymore.”

“And what do you profess?” He was sizing me up like I was on sale.

“Nothing – yet. I’m seeing the world.”

“And how do you find the world?” he drawled. “Is it to your liking?”

“Some things are,” I replied. “Others... not so much. But I am out to learn. Which is why I’m here.”

“Then learn something,” he said. “Watch.”

I followed his eyes, which were on the cards being dealt and the players holding their hands.

“The bald chap – he has the winning hand. A straight flush,” he whispered in my ear.

“But how do you know?” I whispered back. “He’s facing us. You can’t see his cards.”

“I don’t need to see his cards,” he said. “I’ve been watching the game. I know exactly what hand every player has and what cards remain in the deck.”

Now my curiosity was aroused. “But how?” 

“Mathematical probability. Observation. Superior power of intellect.”

“But isn’t a card game all about luck?” I asked.

“Luck!” he ejaculated. One of the players turned to glare at him, but he stared the man down. “Luck is for those who want to lose. I never rely on luck, but on my own mind. It never fails me.”

A moment later the game was over. The other players threw in their cards and the bald man lay his hand on the table and gathered in his winnings gleefully.

“See?” said my new acquaintance. “A straight flush. Just as I said.”

“But how did you know?” I probed. He did not answer. “Then why don’t you play yourself? You could win a lot of money.”

“I do,” he said. “When I need to. But I don’t need to.” And then he walked away.

I watched the card players a while longer, then went in search of a plate of food. The champagne and wine had been flowing, so the company was now louder and more congenial. I went out on the terrace to eat. There I saw the tall man, surrounded by a knot of admirers, most of them women. I crept closer. He was regaling them with stories of the late war in America. From my eavesdropping I learned he was an American with a large estate in Virginia, and had been an officer on the Southern – the losing – side of the conflict.

“Oh, Colonel!” gushed one silly woman. “Were you wounded?”

“Only a flesh wound, dear lady,” he said smoothly. His eyes lifted as he saw me there, listening. “But it was in a place not fit for the ears of the gentle sex.”

That sent the women into paroxysms of giggling and fan-waving.

“If you will excuse me, please?” he said to them.

“Certainly, Colonel.”

And, to my surprise he walked directly over to me. “Credo fatum nos coegisse,” he said.

I set down my plate. “I must go. Suspicor fatum nos voluisse diversos.”

But his hand stayed me. “What do you know about the workings of Fate, little boy?”

“I know that Lady Percy warned me about avoiding sodomites,” I said, pulling from his grasp. “And I am not a little boy!”

“You think I am a sodomite?” His voice was dark.

“Your hand on my wrist tells me that you want me to stay near to you, so I will assume the worst.” He then released me. “I also think you are not an American.”

His eyes shifted nervously. “And what do you think I am?”

“An Irishman,” I said with confidence. “My mother was Irish and I well remember her soft accent. You have that slight softness in your speech that Englishmen do not have, but which is common in Welshmen and Irishmen. And a moment ago you said ‘tink’ instead of ‘think.’ I heard you make the same mistake when you were talking about your estate in Virginia. The Irish don’t pronounce the ‘th’ sound. You were careful to say it most of the time, but sometimes you slipped, like you did when you were annoyed with me.”

He leaned back. “You are an impertinent boy.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps, but I can afford to be impertinent because I have nothing to lose and nothing to hide. Unlike you.”

“It is possible to be an American and also Irish-born. The United States of America is full of immigrants.” He blew a puff of acrid smoke over my head.

“I thought you were a Confederate?” I said. “I didn’t know they acknowledged the legitimacy of their conquerors. You see, sir, I may have been locked away in a strict Jesuit school, but I was allowed to read ‘The Times’ and other newspapers. I am not completely ignorant of the world – even if I am merely an impertinent boy!”

I strutted away, laughing, very pleased with myself for having scored off the pretentious gentleman.

I drank another glass of champagne and chatted with Lady Percy for another hour, then said my farewells and began the long trek back to my small pensione.

I had not walked halfway down the Esquiline Hill when I became aware that a carriage was following me. I lengthened my stride, but the carriage kept apace, slowing and speeding up to match me. I was apprehensive, but also full of champagne courage, so I stopped and challenged my pursuer. “If you want something of me, make yourself known!”

The carriage was large, of dark wood, with a crest on the side. The door opened. “Get in. ’Tis a long walk down to the city.” The accent was now clearly Irish, no attempt at disguise.

“So,” I said, once inside. “You are a sodomite after all. Are you going to attempt my virtue in this closed carriage?”

“I am not going to attempt anything, John Watson,” he replied. “And I am not a sodomite. I do not put such labels upon myself. It is limiting. I open myself up to all possibilities, as should any truly rational man.”

“Then I am not rational,” I said. “Because I assuredly am not a sodomite.”

“You are a wicked little boy,” he growled. “You don’t know what or who you are. That is what intrigues me. You are unformed, like common clay.”

“I am not common!” I retorted. “My father was a solicitor and my grandfather a doctor! They were both gentlemen, as am I!”

“You are a spoiled brat,” said the Irishman. “Entranced by your own beauty and certain that you will always get your way. And, if you follow my instruction instead of that of the well-meaning but very limited Lady Percy, then you will certainly always get your way from any man and woman you desire. Except me, of course. Because I will always know what you really are.”

I was gripped by a strange excitement. “Are you making an indecent proposition to me? Because I have had offers from many gentleman and a number of ladies as well. But I have turned them all down. I am not interested in such ‘arrangements.’”

He leaned closer. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, smell his dark, musky cologne. “Are you afraid, little boy?”

“No,” I swallowed. But I was. Afraid and thrilled.

“You should be, John,” he said, his voice mesmerizing. “You have no idea of my power. Or of my grand plans. In your entire life you will never meet anyone who is my intellectual equal. I am offering you a chance at greatness. You will have more power, more wealth, more satisfaction than you have ever dreamed of. That is my promise. What does the mundane world have to offer you? A pittance! A small allowance on which to live. A dismal career as a solicitor like your boring father. A drab middle class female as wife. A hobbled little life. That is what you can expect. What a waste of beauty that would be! I collect beautiful things, you know. And you are extraordinarily beautiful.”

“Turn here!” I cried out. “Please! My pensione is down that way!”

The Irishman gave the coachman the order and he turned. A few minutes later we stopped before the old building. It was very late and the street was dark and still.

He climbed out of the carriage and handed me down. “I will see you to your door.”

“I’m not a schoolgirl,” I said, tossing my head. “I can see myself.”

“I said I will see you to your door,” he repeated, almost threateningly.

In the entryway I fumbled with my key, but the Irishman seized me with an iron hand and shoved me against the rough plaster wall. I thought he was going to kiss me and I held my breath, expectantly.

But he didn’t kiss me. He held me close to him. I could feel his member harden in his trousers as it pressed against me. His cold grey eyes were now hot and blazing with lust.

“I will have you, Johnny Lad,” he whispered. “You may count upon it. I will have you, body and soul. Because I know what you want and what you need: a man who is everything to you – friend, companion, comrade-in-arms, father, brother, and lover. Together we will defeat all our enemies and rule a dominion unseen by men without vision. Once I thought I had found my perfect soul-mate, but he proved false. One day he will pay for that rejection. But you will not reject me, John. I will have you. I will be the first to possess you. And then I will always own you.”

The tone of his voice terrified me even more than his words. I pushed him away. “Get your bloody hands off me! You’re a madman!”

He stepped back and straightened his clothes. “Perhaps. But if this be madness, yet there is method in it, as the poet said. Adieu – for now.”

He returned to the carriage and the door slammed. I watched the conveyance clatter down the narrow street into the enveloping darkness.

The next day I left Rome as if the hounds of Hell were on my tail. I was not far wrong.


	14. “A Recollection of a Wayward Youth”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young John in trouble.
> 
> Flashbacks continue.

 

After hastening away from Italy, I spent the next few months touring the continent. I visited Greece, taking in Athens and Delphi, as well as a few of the scenic isles, until I landed in Alexandria. There I found another English colony that gladly gave shelter to a young wanderer. I connected myself to the family of an attaché at Her Majesty’s embassy. The ladies of the family were preparing to travel alone through North Africa, via Tripoli and Morocco, and on to Gibraltar and the gentleman’s next appointment.

I presented myself as the perfect chaperon for the attaché’s wife and daughter on their journey and was happily accepted. The truth is that I fancied myself in love with the daughter. And with his wife. That was the trouble. I found myself courting the girl, while having an affair with the woman. It was most confusing, but also most delightful. The daughter was petite and blonde with a laugh like a babbling brook, while the mother was redhaired and buxom, a lusty female who made me forget my close calls with the gentlemen in Italy, and especially the Irishman. 

But my romantic situation became extremely sticky as we three – the attaché remaining in Alexandria to finish his business – arrived and then tarried on the Rock. But the weather in summer on the Spanish coast was beastly, the heat the most oppressive I had ever experienced. I found myself longing for cooler climes even as I also found many reasons to work up a sweat with the wife. But I needed to seek a safer situation, since the attaché would very soon be joining our ménage.

Full of regret, I bid the dear ladies adieu with the excuse that my brother expected me to begin my studies shortly. This was actually a fact, although I neglected to add that I had no intention of opening my books at Michaelmas term or any other term that season. I had not yet settled on a way of living, although my brother wanted me to take up the Law, following in his and our father’s footsteps. But I knew that pursuit was not for me. I had more of an affinity for Medicine, but I knew that study was an onerous one and was not eager to turn myself over to its heavy discipline. At least not yet.

I wandered north through Spain, finding that country both picturesque and easy on my limited purse. But I was eager to get to La Belle France and try out the years of French I had labored over in school. And also to try out the charms of Paris I had read so much about in the literature of Dumas, Hugo, and Verne.

Needless to say, those charms did not disappoint. Paris is a city with a reputation for sin, especially for jaded Englishmen. But I was far from jaded, which worked to my advantage. Even relative innocence has its appeal, and compared to the usual run of English sinner, I was a mere babe in the woods. As elsewhere on the continent, my youthful enthusiasm and fresh face opened doors to palaces and brothels, ballrooms and low dives, theatres and racecourses, literally anywhere that offered amusements I had scarce dreamed of in my Spartan Jesuit school.

Once again I was solicited by gentlemen of a certain inclination, but by now I was seasoned at playing their game without succumbing to their enticements. I am not proud to confess that I took small gratuities from them, allowed them to buy me drinks and meals I could not have otherwise afforded, and even permitted a few harmless liberties – what is the cost of a kiss, after all, to a callow lad of 17? But when they attempted to press their point up me, I relied upon my open and seemingly guileless face to protect me from offering up the integrity of my arsehole. Luckily for me, the sodomites of Gay Paree did not believe in forcing the issue.

I enjoyed myself in Paris more than I can say, but unfortunately war broke out between the French and their eternal adversaries, the Germans. I ignored the fact that I was dancing on the lip of a volcano until the Prussian Army was at the very gates and the city effectively under siege. It was my first taste of war and would not be my last, although I must say that experiencing war in Paris and experiencing it in the bleak Afghan mountains are quite different things. By Christmas it was obvious the city could not hold out much longer and, sadly, I collected my belongings and made my way out, not wishing to meet up with any Prussian officers who might decide that the sodomitical virginity of a foolish English boy was their due as victors.

Reaching London in the New Year, I fancied myself a well-traveled, self-proclaimed expert in the art of love, proud to be still in firm possession of my manhood. In other words, I was a smug and insufferable young jackass. And I was happier and more carefree than I have ever been in my life, before or afterwards.

I presented myself to my brother, who was not pleased to see me, especially when he learned I had no intention of enrolling in any course of study. But the money my father had set aside for my higher education was not going to disappear and I had a modest allowance from my inheritance. I had sampled the pleasures of Amsterdam, Rome, Alexandria, and Paris, as well as points in between. Now I was ready for those of the capital of my own homeland.

I fell in with a fast set of indolent young gentlemen. All we cared for was drinking, gambling, dressing like dandies, chasing women, and gaining entrance at the houses of our betters in order to sponge off them. I quickly became adept at all these practices. The skills I had learned on the continent served me equally well in London. I slept with a myriad of older but still extremely pleasing females, often while paying court to their daughters and playing cards with their husbands. But that was the way of the world, as Lady Percy would have said. I joined a club I could ill afford and there I gambled like a lord. I lost much, but when I won I took it as a sign that I was leading a charmed life. I ran up debts, but rarely paid them – I was young and paying my debts of honour could wait until I was older. Until I had a career and cash coming in. Or until my brother made good on them.

What I did not know at the time was that my brother was also leading a life full of chaos. His work as a solicitor bored him and he was delving into the speculative business practices that would eventually reduce him to bankruptcy. He was also drinking, albeit secretly, well on his way to becoming a drunkard. But this was in the future and I could not recognize the signs that were plainly before my eyes. But we never recognize the signs, do we? Not until it is too late.

But the reckoning always comes. For me it came after a little over a year of cheerful debauchery. I was 18 years old, arrogant, pleasure-loving, and footloose. I was making love regularly to two beautiful women, a French countess-in-exile who was the mistress of a duke, and the wife of a Member of Parliament with a house off Grosvenor Place and an estate in Hertfordshire. I was living rent-free at my brother’s house in Kensington and spending every shilling of my allowance on my wardrobe. For food and drink, I depended on invitations, and I had many. A beautiful face and an ingratiating smile took me far and my mirror told me that I might expect to parlay these gifts of nature into marriage to a wealthy widow or even the daughter of a peer. Then I would be set for life.

Until I found my gambling debts catching up with me. I was barred from my club until I paid my debts of honour. But my brother, already beginning to sink in his own financial seas, would not settle them. Then a fellow I considered a good friend became engaged. I also owed him money and he demanded it, needing all the ready cash he could gather to set up his new household. I gritted my teeth and paid all I had. Other creditors pressed me and I tried to make good. But my allowance was not enough. I resorted to the pawnshops of Holborn and gained a little money from my possessions, but it was still not enough. I asked for a loan from my countess, but she refused and broke off our liaison. Then the wife of the MP, deciding I was now a liability, closed her door to me. I began to panic, not knowing which way to turn.

Then one of my club friends directed me to a certain gambling establishment. It was in a disagreeable area of the City, which I will refrain from naming because the humiliation of my youthful imprudence still stings. But I was sure the gods were with me – I was young, handsome, and cocky. The cards must turn my way! Luck had to be mine!

Alas, you can imagine how it was. I lost and continued losing. The gambling establishment allowed me credit, which they must have known I could not repay. But I plunged ahead, deeper and deeper, until I was all but lost. I realize now that it had all been decided beforehand. I was a dupe and never had a chance.

I went back to the establishment again and again in a futile attempt to find the winning streak that would make all good. But that fortunate hand never came. One afternoon a pair of men, dressed in black with their hats pulled low over their faces, visited me at my brother’s house while he was at his office and warned me that if I did not pay up, I would live to regret it.

“Such a pretty face,” said the larger man, a fellow with dead eyes and a slim stiletto that he pressed lightly against my ashen cheek. “Be a bloomin’ shame to see such beauty all bloodied and scarred, wouldn’t it, Fred?”

“Yeah, Bill,” said his compatriot. “A dirty shame. No one would want to kiss that cheek after we got finished with it. A pity, that.”

“For the love of God!” I cried. “I’ll pay! Just give me more time!”

“A little more,” said Bill. “But just a little. We’ll be back in three days. Then we expect payment in full.”

I considered retreating to the continent or even America, but I had no ready funds. If I fled, it would be in complete penury and that I could not contemplate. I also thought about joining the Army or Navy, but I would need to buy a commission – I knew I would never survive in the ranks of common soldiers or sailors. And I dared not ask my brother for another pence. I went into the drawing room and stared at the portrait of my mother that had once hung in my father’s house in Guildford, a house long since sold. It was the only thing left of my childhood, yet as I gazed at it, I thought only about the value of the gilt frame and what I might get for it at the pawnbroker’s. That’s when I cracked, weeping until I had nothing left. That night I lay in bed and turned over in my head the many ways a man might kill himself.

The next day, after my brother left the house, I walked out, aimlessly. I found myself on the High Street, looking into windows, my hands shoved in my pockets, my misery at its height. That’s when I became aware of a large carriage halted in the road nearby. A familiar carriage with a crest on the side.

My heart leapt in dread, but also in anticipation. The door of the carriage opened and I walked over and climbed inside.

“Well, Johnny Lad,” he said. “You are in some trouble I see. But I think I might be of service to you – if you will be of service to me. Let’s have a little talk together, shall we?”

And the carriage rattled off down the street.


	15. “A Bargain with the Devil”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson faces the Irishman.

Getting into the carriage with the Irishman was my first mistake. It would not be my last.

“How did you find me?” I asked with trepidation.

He laughed. “You leave a trail a mile wide, as they say in America. I looked for places where a imprudent young man might waste his time and lose his money – and there you were.” 

I tried to discern a purpose in his eyes, but they were veiled to me. “Yes, I have been reckless,” I conceded. “And now I am in arrears. I confess I don’t know where to turn.”

The Irishman leaned back against the leather seat and carefully lit one of his long French cigarettes. He did not offer me one. He silently smoked for some moments, gazing out the window at the passing streets.

“Might you drop me here?” I asked. “My brother’s house is along this way.”

“You seem to think I am a hired cab,” said the Irishman. “I remember dropping you off at another destination after we first met. Do you recall that evening?”

“Yes. I recall it.” I also recalled his hot breath on my face. And his hard manhood pressing against my thigh.

“You have left debts all over this city,” he continued. “They are not substantial obligations, as such things are understood.”

“They are substantial to me. For they are beyond my means to repay.” My heart was pounding now. The carriage was driving on, out of Kensington and into the northern part of town. 

“You should never gamble beyond your ability, John,” he said. “Or with your betters. I also seem to recall that you knew little of cards when you were in Rome. You did not even recognize that the men were playing poker, yet you staked your meagre fortune on the turn of these same cards.”

I swallowed. It was difficult to be tutored in the truth by a man I judged to be without scruples or mercy. “I sometimes won. On days when I felt luck was with me.”

The Irishman’s grey eyes flashed with anger. “Luck! You would lay your life upon luck? Luck is for the weak of mind. Luck is for women. Luck is for those doomed to lose.”

“But you gamble,” I retorted. “You told me so yourself.”

“I never gamble,” he corrected me. “I place wagers, but only when I am assured I will be the winner.”

“In other words, you cheat!” I crossed my arms before me, assured that I had him at last.

“I do not need to cheat,” he said. “Cheating is for those who don’t have the brains to win in the only way that matters – by using reason. By using logic. And by using mathematics. I win because I follow the cards. I calculate all the possibilities. I don’t guess which way the cards fall – I know.”

“That’s impossible!” I stated. I had learned enough mathematics from the Jesuits to knew that what the Irishman was claiming was beyond the scope of the mind of a mere mortal. Or most mortals. “Even a prodigy would not be able to perform in such a manner!”

“I can,” he said simply. “For I am a prodigy. I could do advanced calculations from the cradle. My mind is like a machine – if such a machine for calculating existed. It does not – yet – but I do. And I am not the only one who can do this. I have, in my travels, met two others whose minds can almost match my own – almost. It must be a trick of lineage, for they are brothers. Perhaps we three are related through some far distant ancestor. That would truly be an irony. So you see that I do not believe in luck. However...” he paused significantly. “I am Irish, which means I do believe in fate.”

“Fate?” Something inside me went cold.

“Destiny. Kismet, as the Mohammedan would say. I believe that certain things are determined by a higher power. Certain meetings. Certain successes and failures. And that certain people are bound by fate to rule over others.”

This sounded like superstitious nonsense, even more dubious from a man so invested in reason. “You mean kings and queens? And not those in a desk of cards.”

“Kings and queens are mere figureheads these days, Johnny Lad,” he said dismissively. “The true power of the material world lies in the hands of men whose names will never be known, whose faces will never be seen. Such men do not seek notoriety. They eschew mere fame. They gain power and wealth by their very invisibility.”

“You speak of criminals,” I pronounced. “The underworld. Men without morals or respect for society!”

“Respect for society?” he scoffed. “What is society but a stew of hypocrisy?” The Irishman smiled at me. “Were the men you gambled with moral? Were the boys you caroused with respectful and full of good will? And what about yourself, Johnny Lad? Who are you to lecture me on the wages of sin? A young pup who is as green as the grass. A boy who believes that dressing in silk waistcoats and sleeping with dim-witted females is the be-all and end-all of life’s purpose. You should have stayed safe in your seminary. At least there you would have had a purpose and a belief, however wrongheaded it may be. Now what do you have? Nothing at all. You don’t even have a friend you could go to when you were in despair. Not even your own brother cares a groat whether you live or die. If those ruffians who threatened you yesterday had slit your throat, would a single person on this earth have truly mourned you? Tell me the truth.”

My eyes went wide. “How do you know about those men?”

“I know about them because I know who sent them – and why,” he replied. “They are little men – or they were, for they no longer walk this vale of tears.”

“What the devil do you mean?” I cried. “What happened to them?”

“They threatened you, John. With this.” He produced a stiletto from within the folds of his black frock coat. “They might have damaged you and I cannot allow that. They went too far. They were supposed only to frighten you, not to touch you. Your beauty is too precious to me. And so they had to be taught a lesson. A last and fatal lesson.”

“You... you... killed them?” I stammered. But even as I said the words I knew they were true.

“I did not,” said the Irishman. “I don’t need to kill. I have others who perform such deeds – if they need performing.”

“But... I thought those men were from the gaming club?” I said. My mind was spinning wildly. 

“That they were. But they were thugs for hire. Such fellows are clumsy and I detest clumsiness. Here. I give you back these.” He took a sheaf of papers from his coat. “It was beyond foolish to rack them up. Pray do not do it again.”

I stared at the slips of paper. They were my markers from the gambling establishment in the City. And also from my gentlemen’s club in Belgravia, and from three different bookmakers. And bills from my tailor and various haberdasheries in the West End. All paid in full. 

The Irishman had settled my debts.

Now I owed him. Owed him more than my miserable life was worth to anyone.

I crumpled the paper in my hands.

“I cannot repay you.”

“Of course you can, John,” said the Irishman in his softest voice. “You will begin tonight.”


	16. “An Intimate Connection”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson shaken back to the present.

“Dr. Watson? Sir?”

“What?” I felt myself being shaken awake. “I say! Is something the matter?”

It was James, the young footman. “Mr. Lovell sent me to tell you that dinner will be served at half past six, sir. Mr. Sherlock is already in his room, dressing for dinner.”

I glanced around, noting the shadows encasing the library. “Is it as late as all that?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “I didn’t want to wake you ’cause you were so peaceful, but I didn’t want you to miss your meal.”

I stood up slowly – and unsteadily. My leg was stiff. I reached for my cane.

“I’ll get that for you, sir.” James put the stick into my hand. “Let me help you.”

But I shook him off. I am not an old man, no matter how I might look to a mere stripling like James. I’m not even near to 40 – still six years younger than Holmes, who leaps and prowls like an alley cat, not to mention trading blows with the bare-fisted ruffians in places like Alison’s and the Box.

But I’m no weakling. Never!

I took a step and felt the cramp seize me. Damnation!

“I think I shall return to my room and omit dinner this evening.”

“But Doctor, you can’t go hungry!” James had obviously appointed himself my guardian.

“Perhaps I’ll take a bite later, but not now. I’m going upstairs to bed. Please inform Mr. Lovell and ask him to pass the word on to Mr. Holmes.”

“Did you catch a chill, sir?” James asked anxiously. “I can get a mustard plaster from Mrs. Jenkins. That should fix you up right smartly.”

“Not necessary. I am a physician, remember? If I need a physic, I have my bag at hand.”

“Yes, sir,” said James, contritely. “I’ll tell Mr. Lovell you won’t be dining.”

I went out of the library and started up the stairs, only to find young James dogging my steps. “Sir! I forgot to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For seeing to Mr. Charles at Campton Grange,” he said. “My cousin Alfie is ever so grateful that you looked after his young master. Everyone is very fond of Mr. Charles and wishes he were out of his trouble.”

I knew James was obliquely referring to the blackmail plot that had caused Charles Griffith to attempt to take his own life. The servants at Campton knew all, which meant that their compatriots at Sherringford knew all as well. There was undoubtedly not a kitchen or stable in all of West Sussex that did already have intelligence of the entire sad story. 

“Young Mr. Griffith is my patient, James. I will look after him to the best of my ability as long as Mr. Holmes and I remain here at Sherringford. I want that unfortunate gentlemen to get well – and he will. Mr. Holmes and I will see to it. Do you understand my meaning?”

The footman nodded. “I understand. Thank you again, sir.”

Once in my chamber I was beset by a strange weariness. I undressed, washed, tended to nature’s needs, and then got immediately into my bed. I had a novel by Mr. Wilkie Collins that I had been planning to read, but found myself unable to pick it up. Instead, I stared up at the canopy draperies and listened to the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

Then I heard another sound. The familiar sound of a small secret door being opened in the nearby wall. A moment later a shadowy form was creeping into my bed.

“Good lord, Holmes! If you want to speak with me, why not come through the main door like a normal person?”

“What fun would that be?” he opined. “I spent the day touring the hives and observing the bees, but it was not very enjoyable without someone to explain them to.”

“I am sorry not to have been there to benefit from your generous tutelage, ” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

“And then I was deucedly worried when you did not come to dinner,” Holmes pouted. “Are you ill, my dear boy?”

“Not ill,” I disclosed. “But tired. This business with the Griffith lad is vexing. It has upset me more than I care to admit.”

“I also have been pondering this dismal affair,” said Holmes. “Tomorrow I wish to question him further. I only fear his father will hinder me. The major and I did not part on the best of terms.”

“You are far too blunt with people, Holmes,” I chastised him. “A little bit of a bedside manner might serve you better than confrontation.”

“Bedside manner!” Holmes exclaimed. “No one has ever complained about my bedside manner before!”

“I will make no further comment on that,” I sighed. “But I too wish to examine the lad in the morning. He seems to have sustained no substantive physical damage, but his state of mind is another thing altogether. A man who attempts suicide once is always in danger of trying it again, especially if his difficulties have not been alleviated.”

“That is my domain,” said Holmes. “Never fear, Watson! I will get to the bottom of it.”

“As you always do,” I agreed.

There was a sharp rap on the door. “Dr. Watson, sir? May I enter?”

“It’s the footman!” I said in alarm. “For the sake of heaven, Holmes! Get under the bed!”

“Under the bed?” He frowned. “It’s only a servant, Watson. Why should I hide?”

“But... he might get the wrong idea!” I said. 

“What idea could he possibly get?” Holmes said in his infuriatingly calm manner. “What could be more innocent than two men with an intimate connection who have shared an abode for many years lounging companionably together in bed?”

“Doctor?” James called once more. “Are you all right?”

“One moment, please!” I answered. “At least put the covers over your head, Holmes. For my peace of mind.”

“Oh, very well,” he said, pulling the bedclothes up. “Now invite the bugger in!”

“Come in, James!” 

The footman entered, carrying a large silver tray. “I brought you tea and toast, sir. The toast is cut on the diagonal, just the way you like it. Couldn’t let you go to bed without a nibble, could I?”

“Thank you, James,” I said. “You are too kind.”

“It’s my job, sir,” said the young footman, setting the tray upon the nightstand. “Will you be wanting a bath tonight? Harry and I could bring up hot water.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I shifted in distress, for Holmes was chortling beside me and I feared the servant would discern that something was amiss. 

“I was going to bring your dog up with me,” James continued. “But the women are fussing over him down in the kitchen, feeding him scraps and making much of him. He’s eating it all up with a spoon, I must say.”

“Gladstone enjoys attention of any kind, but especially from the fair sex. And he is quite a glutton, I fear.”

“Oh, he’s a grand dog,” said James. “He should be right as rain by the kitchen fire.”

“That will be splendid,” I said, eager to be rid of him. “I won’t be requiring anything else tonight. Thank you, James.”

“Right then,” he said. “Good-night, Doctor. And good-night to you, too, Mr. Sherlock. By the way – I dusted the secret passageway. If you’re going to be using it regularly you wouldn’t want it full of cobwebs, would you, sir?”

Holmes poked his head out of the bedclothes sheepishly. “No, indeed,” he replied. 

James bowed. “Pleasant dreams, gentlemen.”

“The same to you, James.”

We watched the door close behind the servant.

I turned to my friend, steaming. “That was the most embarrassing moment of my life!”

“Surely not,” said Holmes. “Now hand over that toast and tea. I’m as hungry as Gladstone after a brisk waddle across the sitting room. I couldn’t swallow even a morsel at dinner for concern about you.”

“Please don’t insult my dog, Holmes,” I said in defeat. “He’s fat because you feed him too much.”

“Our dog, my dear fellow.”

“Let us not start that argument again,” I said, pouring him a cup. “One lump or two?”

“Oh, two, if you please,” said Holmes. “I feel the need for a little sweetness tonight, Watson. It feeds the mind. And I have much to think over.”

“As do I,” I replied.


	17. “A Small Glass of Burgundy”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback:
> 
> John Watson remembers the most painful moment of his past.

 

I had not had that dream for a long time, perhaps not in years. But I had it that night.

I do not know if Charles Griffith and his dilemma was on my mind, or if it was the proximity of Holmes in my bed, or some other confluence of memories and tangibilities that brought on the dream, but it came. We have no control over our thoughts in sleep and I had no control over this. But I do know that it was as real to me as when it happened so many years ago when I was only 18.

 

***

 

The house was a large one, a detached dwelling set back from the road and apart from any of its neighbors. The carriage pulled up to the door and a silent servant ushered us inside. There was a chill over the place and a hush, as if warmth and speech were strangers there. I saw a sitting room where a small fire was lit and began to move towards it, but the Irishman’s iron hand gripped my shoulder like a vise.

“This way,” he said, directing me to the stairway. 

He walked me up to a large chamber. In that room was a fireplace, some nondescript furniture, a tall bookcase overflowing with thick tomes, and a curtained bed.

“My brother,” I said in sudden panic. “He’ll be coming home from his office soon. He’ll wonder where I am.”

“No, he will not,” said the Irishman. “Has he ever wondered where you were? When you wandered about the Continent, alone? Or when you stayed out all night with your mistresses or gambling with your cronies at your club? Did he ever seek you out, concerned about your welfare?”

“No,” I whispered. For it was true. My brother only seemed to notice me when I was in trouble, and then he simply wished I would go away and leave him in peace. And now I had truly gone away, but how far I could not then imagine.

“I will send him a note, telling him that you are visiting a friend and will be gone for a fortnight at least,” said the Irishman. “You will sign this note.”

“A fortnight?” I was standing by the fire, but my hands were like ice. “But I have brought no clothes with me. No possessions at all.”

“That will be seen to,” said the Irishman. He nodded to the silent servant, who left the room. “Whatever you need from now on, I will give to you.”

The tone of his voice, the expression on his face, seized me with nameless dread. “Please! I will find a way to repay you,” I pleaded. “I will go to a moneylender.”

The Irishman went to the table and picked up a bottle of wine. A single delicate crystal glass stood, waiting to be filled – but only one. “And what do you have of value as pledge for such a loan?”

“I...” I had nothing and he knew it. “Give me time! For God’s sake!”

“Do you still believe in God?” he asked. “What a proper little Jesuit you would have made, Johnny Lad. But that would have been such a waste. You are much more suited to your new occupation. You have a composed exterior, but beneath that I perceive a restless and passionate nature. At least the females you have found pleasure with have been complimentary of your skills as a lover.”

“They... they have?” My heart was in my throat.

“Yes,” he continued. “The countess especially has been singing your praises to all her friends, but you know how the French are – so effusive in their emotions. And the ladies at Madame Sophie’s house in Lambeth are quite fond of you. I congratulate you on your taste in patronizing that establishment. Madame’s girls are known for their cleanliness, if not their discretion.”

“I don’t have the pox, if that’s what you mean!” I retorted. Too late I realized that if the Irishman did believe I was diseased, he might be put off. But I was not and he knew it. He seemed to know everything about me – my health, my habits, even the women I had slept with.

“Yes, John,” he said, reading my mind. “You have been my study lately. Ever since I saw you on the street in Florence.”

“Florence? But we met in Rome,” I said, confused.

“Yes, at Lady Percy’s salon. But that is not where I first noticed you. That was in Florence. You were looking at the David, gazing on it with fascinated eyes. And I was gazing at you. I could not decide which was more beautiful – the marble or you. But since I could not possess the statue – carrying off that theft is beyond even my ability – I vowed to possess you. So I bided my time, watching and waiting. You may have youth and beauty, my boy, but I have the gift of patience. And anticipation makes the consummation all the sweeter. ‘’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d,’ as the poet said.”

“The consummation?” I recognized the quote. The Irishman loved to show off his knowledge of Shakespeare. But this quote referred to death. To self-slaughter. “To be or not to be.” Under the circumstances I became even more afraid. I backed away, but there was nowhere to go. No escape. The windows were barred and the house infested with the Irishman’s minions. I would look like a fool attempting to run.

“Here,” he said, holding out a small glass of wine. “This is quite a fine burgundy. You will find it relaxing, I’m sure.”

“I... I’m not thirsty.” Now I was sweating. How can one be hot and cold at the same time?

The Irishman’s eyes never wavered from mine. “I advise you to drink it. All of it.”

I took the glass.

As soon as I had taken one sip I knew it was drugged, but I finished it anyway. Rather drugged senseless than to be fully aware and fighting a battle I was bound to lose. For there was no point in fighting. If this consummation had happened in another way, at another time, another place, I might not have been fighting it at all. That I was attracted to the Irishman was not in doubt. He was magnetic, even mesmerizing. I often wondered if he used a form of the hypnotic arts to lure men into doing his will – the power of his mind was certainly strong enough. Still, this was not the way I would have chosen to meet my fate. Unfortunately, that choice was not mine to make.

I had never been under the influence of an opiate before and found the experience terrifying in itself. For I was not senseless – in fact, I was all too aware of what was happening to me. But it was as if I were under water, trying to swim through a morass of vivid greens and blues, like I was breathing a fetid but enticing swamp. 

The Irishman deftly stripped off my clothes and pushed me back onto the curtained bed. I flailed at him, but he was like a phantom, everywhere and nowhere. And he had me in every way possible and then he had me again, and yet again, but he was a hazy presence, the pleasure and the pain muted.

“You are more beautiful than I had imagined, Johnny Lad,” he crooned as he caressed me afterwards. “I am intoxicated by you. Possessing you is a privilege I will not take for granted. You will be cherished, as you well deserve. And no one else will ever have you again. I will keep you safe and sound, I promise you that, my beauty.”

His foggy words brought me little comfort. I was sick in body and in my soul and only wanted the world to end that night. And it did – but not in the way I understood an ending.

I awoke in the morning, aching in every part, inside and out. And aching in my heart. What was my life to be from now on? Would the Irishman have his pleasure and then release me? Perhaps I could then forget it had ever happened. Perhaps my seminary would accept me back – I could repent of my sins and beg forgiveness. I could hide there, away from my shame. And not just the shame of being violated in a way no man can be and still be a man.

For my other, greater shame was that I knew I wanted to do this and wanted it done to me. And that the Irishman had discerned that desire and brought it to light. Because I could not deny that my body had roused to him, eagerly meeting his ministrations with a response that dwarfed my experience with women, as delightful as that had always been. My body – my prick and my arse and my mouth – had betrayed me, even as my mind fought and lost.

I spent that first day in bed, hiding my face, refusing food. Another servant, a female this time, came and brought me water to wash and a clean nightshirt and a blue silk dressing gown. She told me to put it on.

“The master picked this out himself,” she cackled, showing a row of broken teeth. “Said it matched your pretty eyes!” 

“I won’t,” I said, remaining in the deep bed.

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “But you’ll come around. You should cheer up, young gentleman. I never saw the master take so to anyone. He’s quite besotted, he is. You could have anything you desired. He’s wealthier that you can imagine, although he don’t put on airs.”

“I don’t care,” I said, turning my head to the wall. 

But then a thought came to me. Perhaps if I enlisted her to my cause, she might help me? Might see her way to letting me escape?

Then I looked at her face. She was laughing at me. She was as heartless as the Irishman. They all were. No one cared what happened to me, not even my own brother, so why should this woman take pity? I cried, but still she laughed. I thought of ways to kill myself, but I knew I would not do it. “A consummation devoutly to be wished.” But I was a coward. I was a child. I wanted my life – but I wanted it on my own terms, not the Irishman’s. He was besotted with me, she’d said. Perhaps there was still time, still hope...

I got out of the bed and washed while she changed the dirty linen on which I’d been broken in. When I was clean, I put on the silk dressing gown and looked at myself in the mirror. I was still the same as I’d been before – my face still smooth, my hair in golden curls, and my eyes as blue as the Italian sky. But now I knew what I was, what I was born to be. Not a priest, or a solicitor, or a physician, or a even worthless layabout. I was a whore. A thing to be used by men stronger and greater than myself.

And when the Irishman was done with me, another, lesser man would probably take me up, and so it would go. I’d seen it happen to women and I had pitied them. But I vowed not to pity myself. I vowed to find some way to survive without becoming something that the world would despise.

The Irishman came back in the early evening. He poured me a small glass of burgundy, just like the first one.

“Drink this,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “I don’t need to.” I dropped my blue dressing gown on the floor, revealing myself. There was nothing else to do.

And the Irishman smiled.

He took me. And took me again. Took me until I was begging for more. Took me on the bed and on the divan and on the floor, until we were both spent.

“I knew you were mine, Johnny Lad,” he whispered. “Body and soul. I’ll never let you go. Never. Never. Never...”

 

***

 

“Never!” I cried. “Never!”

“Watson! Please wake up!”

I opened my eyes and saw Holmes’ face. “Thank God!” I sobbed. “Thank God!”

“Are you ill, my dear boy?” he asked gently. “Let me get you a drink...”

“No,” I said. “I don’t need a drink. Only let me breathe for a moment.”

“Here.” He got up and poured me some cold tea from the pot on the silver tray. “One sip. Slowly.”

I let the tea slip down my throat. “Thank you. I am sorry to have been so much trouble.”

“A nightmare,” he stated, getting back into bed. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Afghanistan?” He was holding me up, his strong arm under me.

“No.”

“You used to have them all the time when you first came to Baker Street,” he said. “I would hear you cry out in the night in your room, but I didn’t think it my place to go to you. I read in the ‘Lancet’ that men who have been wounded in war often have night terrors for a long time after their physical wounds have healed.”

“I did have those terrors,” I said. “When the battle would return to me and wake me. It was all too real. Even now those mountains will come back to me and I’ll awake in an icy sweat.”

“Never fear, my dear friend,” said Holmes said. “For you are the bravest man I have ever known.”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” I replied. “For I am not brave. I am not even fully a man. That is my fate. And my curse.”

“Rubbish!” he uttered. “You are speaking nonsense. I am a consummate judge of character and I long ago I decided you are the most desirable of companions, for your bravery and for all of the manly virtues I hold in high esteem. So don’t tell me that I don’t know you. I have said before that I know everything I need to know about you. I have already selected you out of all other fellows as my perfect associate and partner. I wouldn’t have lived with you all these years and shared my professional secrets with you if I didn’t trust you with my very life. What more could any man ask for?”

“Nothing,” I said, sitting up. “I beg your indulgence, Holmes, but I think you should go back to your own room now.”

“Why ever for?” Holmes frowned. “It is almost dawn. In a few hours we can have a hearty breakfast and then face the major and his son over at Campton Grange. I have a theory about this case...”

“There is no case,” I pointed out. “Major Griffith is unlikely to hire you to find his son’s blackmailer, especially since you quarreled with him and he undoubtedly thinks you are a damned conceited ass.”

“Well, I am a damned conceited ass. That is part of my charm,” Holmes sniffed. “If the major does not engage my services, then I will undertake the investigation on behalf of Young Charles, forgoing my usual fee. The Griffiths are old family friends, after all. Now, go back to sleep. I’ll be deuced if I’m going to crawl through that freezing passageway at this hour of the night when this bed is so cozy and warm!”

“Very well.” I set the teacup on the tray and lay back down. Holmes nestled deeply into the bed, grunting in a way that reminded me of Gladstone. I closed my eyes, praying that the dream would not return.

“If it wasn’t Afghanistan, then what was it, my dear boy?” 

Holmes never lets anything go once he smells a mystery.

“Something I don’t discuss,” I said. “Something I cannot discuss. Ever. Not with you, not with any living being.”

“You can trust me, John,” he whispered. “As I trust you.”

Little did he know how much I wanted to unburden myself to him, but I could not. “It isn’t about trust. I cannot explain. Let it go. Please?”

“Another time then,” he said, turning over on his side. In a moment he was snoring.

“No,” I said to myself. “Never.”


	18. “An Interview with a Young Client”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson take on a new case.

Promptly at ten o’clock the next morning Holmes and I presented ourselves at the front door of Campton Grange.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” said the butler. “But the major does not desire to see you.”

“Good,” replied Holmes. “I have no desire to see him, either. We are here to attend to Mr. Charles Griffith. Pray take us to him.”

The butler shrugged and let us in.

Mrs. Griffith was sitting by Young Charles’ bedside. The lad looked decidedly better, but the bandage was still around his neck, hiding the marks of the ligature.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Griffith. “I’m so happy you have come! And Doctor Watson, too! I have been so worried about my son.”

“Never fear, dear lady,” I said, taking her delicate hand. “I will see to his recovery personally. Soon your boy will be as good as new.”

“Oh, thank you!” She took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You are so kind, Doctor.”

“It is easy to be kind to a beautiful and noble lady such as yourself,” I said sincerely. 

“If you are done with your gallantries, Watson,” said Holmes impatiently. “You might take a look at the subject at hand.”

“If you will leave us alone, Mrs. Griffith,” I said, seeing her to the door. “I will examine your son.”

“Thank you again, Doctor,” she averred. “Oh, you are too good. And you as well, Mr. Holmes. I am going to church now and I will include you in my prayers.”

“Yes, madam. Thank you. Say hello to the Lord on my behalf.” He walked over to the door and closed it firmly. “Good God, Watson! I will never understand your penchant for gushing over females,” said Holmes, taking out his pipe and lighting it.

“I like women,” I stated. “You do not.”

“I like them well enough,” Holmes returned. “In their place.”

I rolled my eyes at him, then turned to my patient. “How are you today, young man?” I removed the bandage. The scoring was still red and angry-looking.

“I can speak,” he said. The rasp had faded, but his voice was still weak. “But I have nothing to say to you.”

“Of course you do, Charles,” Holmes asserted. “Now that your mother has retired and your father is nowhere in sight, you will tell me all.”

“There is nothing to say!” the lad said in defiance.

“On the contrary, there is much to say.” Holmes began pacing back and forth, puffing smoke like a freight train. “Blackmail, suicide attempts – these things do not occur out of thin air!”

“I cannot,” said the lad, his eyes tearing up. “It is too horrible! Too shameful!”

“We all have our weaknesses,” I said softly. “Nothing is so shameful that releasing it won’t make it better. Confession eases the soul.”

“Spoken like a cradle Catholic,” Holmes interjected. “Now, Charles, if I am to get to the bottom of this trouble I will need to know details. Names, dates, places – I must have all! We are here to help you out of this muddle, not to judge you.”

Charles winced, but nodded. I helped him sit up straighter. “You may trust Mr. Holmes. The words you speak will not pass from this room.”

“I was living in London,” he began. “I was supposed to be studying, but I was not. I had no desire to return to university. The dons are dullards. They have no finer feelings at all. No poetry in their blood, no fire in their souls! And they do not understand love.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and glanced at me. I well knew his opinions about so-called love and such ‘finer feelings.’

“Go on,” he prodded.

“There is a music hall in Holborn,” said Charles. “The Red Cockerel. Well, it is not exactly a music hall, it is more like a public house with a stage in the back room. But that’s where I met her.”

“Her?” said Holmes in surprise. 

“Dilly,” said Charles. “Dilly Mitchell. She entertained on the stage there. Sang so sweetly that it touched my heart. And she is beautiful, too, with yellow hair and cornflower blue eyes. The moment I saw her I felt... felt something I had never felt before in my life.”

“Love?” I asked.

“Yes, Doctor. Love,” said Charles. “I had felt the baser urges before and... and acted upon them. My school was a stew of immorality. The boys there coupled like animals and it was no better at Oxford. But at least at Magdalen I met some higher-minded young gentlemen. We read poetry and philosophy, we listened to music and discussed great ideas. But it all came to naught when a scandal erupted.”

“A scandal?” said Holmes. “Were you involved in it?”

Charles hung his head. “It was a friend, Lord Reggie Avonmore. He took a passion for a boy who wasn’t a student, but the son of one of the dons. The boy was only 14.”

Holmes took a deep breath. “Only 14! That is quite bad.”

“Yes,” Charles agreed. “We all warned him, but Reggie wouldn’t be dissuaded. He wrote the boy verses and enticed him to my room when I was out. There he seduced him. The boy cried and fought, but Reggie had him anyway. Then he ran home and told his father. After that there was the devil to pay.”

“You were sent down?” said Holmes.

“Yes,” said Charles. “And Claude Warwick and Aldie Bancroft, all members of our set but with nothing to do with the boy’s violation. We were made scapegoats, Mr. Holmes, while Reggie Avonmore was spared! His father is the Duke of St. Austell and the college turned a blind eye to the real culprit for fear of angering such a powerful peer. Reggie took a brief holiday on the Continent and is currently back at Magdalen, seducing everyone within his grasp. It’s not fair!”

“No, indeed,” said Holmes. “But fairness often has little to do with the way justice is meted out.”

“I know,” Charles sighed. “But now I was tainted. My father was furious. He said I must study and try to be admitted into one of the lesser universities. But my heart wasn’t in it. That’s when I met Dilly. She was everything I could have hoped for.”

Holmes stared closely at the lad. “Except?”

Charles looked away. “Except... she wasn’t exactly a female.”

“I thought as much,” Holmes snorted. “Given your history.”

“That’s hardly fair, Holmes,” I protested. “He’s a mere boy! Surely his tastes are not warped for life?”

“I make no judgments about tastes, warped or otherwise,” Holmes replied. “But the lad’s nature is what it is. A leopard cannot change its spots, nor a tiger its stripes. Fear not, Charles, your so-called sins are not my concern. So, this light-of-love was not exactly a lady. But he was a prostitute, am I correct?” 

“But only because she had to!” Charles cried, still using the feminine pronoun. “She had a room near Covent Garden where we would go to make love. I gave her money to keep her off the street. Or rather I gave it to her brother.”

“Her brother?” Holmes cocked his head. “Her pimp, you mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Charles, squirming. “She called him her brother, although they look nothing alike. Dilly is fair as the sun, while her brother is dark.”

“And the brother is the blackmailer?” Holmes probed.

“No,” he replied. “It is another man. You see, I wrote Dilly some letters. I begged her to run away with me. I had money, enough for passage to New York and for us to live comfortably there. I told her it would not matter that she wasn’t really a woman. No one in America would know us, so she could pass as my wife. We would be happy there!”

“But the lady didn’t answer your letters, did she?” said Holmes.

“No,” said Charles. “I didn’t realize that she couldn’t read. The brother read the letters to her and then wrote the replies, encouraging me to write more. I did so – and one day a man came to my lodgings. He had my letters to Dilly. He threatened to reveal them to my father unless I paid him.”

“What was this man’s name?”

Charles hesitated. “He said he’d kill Dilly if I told!”

“And you believed him?” Holmes was relentless. “Tell me, or I cannot continue this case.”

“His name is William Fisher,” Charles said sullenly.

Holmes considered this. “William Fisher. A common enough name. Any distinguishing marks? 

Charles thought. “He’s a man in his thirties. Thin. Dark-haired. He has the manner of a thug.”

“Of course,” said Holmes. “Anything else?”

The lad shook his head. “I only saw him a few times, briefly. He always came to my lodgings after dark. And he usually sent Dilly’s brother to collect the money.”

“And what was the brother’s name?”

“She called him Mick. I assume his last name is Mitchell, like her own.”

“If he is, in fact, her brother, and not another lover.” Holmes paused from his pacing to re-light his smoldering pipe. “And these letters you wrote – they were explicit?”

Charles shrank from Holmes and turned to me in dismay. “I was in love, Doctor! I poured out my soul in them! I wrote that I didn’t care that Dilly was... what she was. And I wrote her poetry, too.” He looked up at Holmes, tearfully. “It was quite good poetry, if I do say so myself.”

“I’m sure,” Holmes said, looking down his nose. “Poetry to a girl who is not a girl! Letters that never should have been written! A silly boy who should know better! A pretty business, this, what say you, Watson?”

The lad was crying in my arms. I stroked his soft hair, attempting to soothe him. “I say that you should have a little more compassion, Holmes. The boy is distraught! And youth often does foolish things in the name of love.”

“I never did,” Holmes scoffed. “I let reason and logic be my guide, as always.”

“Obviously,” I replied. Then I turned to Young Charles. “Do not despair, my lad. All will be well. The blackguard will be dealt with.”

“What will happen to Dilly?” asked Charles, his lower lip trembling.

“If he is guilty, he will go to prison,” stated Holmes.

“But she didn’t do anything!” the boy cried. “It isn’t her fault! I swear.”

“The fellow betrayed you,” said Holmes, his eyes glittering. “You are too young to understand the evil in this world, Charles. It often comes in the guise of love, isn’t that so, Watson?”

His words startled me. “Possibly. But I wouldn’t know for certain.”

Holmes’ hazel eyes were on me, unblinking. “I think you do, Doctor. You have faced down evil. And so have I.” He tossed his head, as if shaking that evil off his shoulder. “But no matter. I will take your case, Charles. You are now my client and I will not rest until you have justice.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes!” said the lad. “But don’t let Dilly be harmed! I beg of you.”

“That may be out of our hands,” I told him. I could not imagine that Charles Griffith’s little paramour was not a guilty party in this sordid business, but it would be a sad lesson for the lad to learn at so tender an age. 

At that moment the chamber door swung open and Alfie, the valet, rushed in. “I couldn’t keep him away!” he cried. “I’m ever so sorry, Mr. Charles!”

Major Griffith strode in behind Alfie, snorting like a crazed bull. “I thought I told you to keep away from my house, Sherlock Holmes!”

“We were just leaving, Major,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson. I think we have what we need.” And he sauntered out of the room.

“Don’t fret, lad,” I said to Charles, squeezing his hand. “You will get past this. It may not seem so now, but time is a great healer. I promise you.”

“You, too, Doctor!” the major blasted. 

“I’m going,” I said serenely. “Give my regards to your charming wife. Tell her that her son needs rest and a mother’s care and all will be well.”

“Get out!” 

“I’m getting,” I replied with studied disdain.

And I got out of Campton Grange as fast as I was able.


	19. “A Conversation by a Dwindling Fire”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson discuses their new case.

 

“A sorry business,” I mused, as Holmes and I sat in the library that evening. It was filthy weather outside, with the rain coming down in torrents, and the chill that infested the old house had caused us to draw close to the hearth in search of warmth.

“Men who prey on the weaknesses of their fellows are a sorry lot,” Holmes concurred. “Young Griffith is a mere lad, unused to the true evils of the world, and so he was ripe to be exploited. Unfortunately, Major Griffith is an obstinate ass and unlikely to give his son the kind of guidance he will need to avoid such contretemps in the future.”

“Charles is a tender-hearted boy,” I commented. “He seemed more concerned with the fate of his little paramour than he was with his own future.”

“The boy is a fool,” Holmes said dismissively. “He imagines he’s in love and so is willing to sacrifice all – his fortune, his good name, even his life. Such poppycock!”

“Perhaps he is in love,” I said, watching the last log split and send a shower of sparks up the flue. “The object may seem to us unworthy, but who can peer into a boy’s soul? Or a man’s?”

“Love!” Holmes almost spat out the word. “Romantic drivel! Thank heaven you and I are men of rational thought, Watson. Neither of us would ever be swept up in such a maelstrom of emotion and disaster.”

“No man can predict his future – or his fate,” I said quietly. “No man can ever understand the needs and agonies of another human heart – or its inner afflictions.”

“Now you are being melodramatic, my boy,” said Holmes. “You feel for this boy and so you begin to empathize with his plight. But you are much too reasonable a fellow ever to fall into such a trap – and so am I. We will both do our best for Charles Griffith – you for his body and I for his situation – but do not begin to believe that you can cure all of his ills – or all the ills of the world. I know you wish to, Watson, but it is impossible. That path leads only to frustration and despair.”

“I know.” I sighed and took out my watch. It was getting late and in the morning we were to get into Mycroft’s carriage and begin that long, wet journey back to London. But I did not wish to quit the library – at least not yet. This might be my only opportunity to visit Holmes’ boyhood home, my last chance to learn something of my reticent friend’s early life. “I’m sorry I did not visit the hives with you yesterday. You seem to put great stock in them.”

Holmes’ eyes glittered. “Bees are deucedly fascinating, my dear fellow! The order of their society! The logic of their behavior! They are without language, without intellect, and even without souls, all the elements we mortal men deem necessary for civilization, yet bees have something we might call a civilization. They work, they cooperate, each in his own place, and each for the good of all!”

“Lord, Holmes,” I said. “You sound like a perfect socialist! I admit bees appear admirable creatures, but do they create great works of art? Compose beautiful music? Write uplifting literature?”

“They build,” Holmes asserted. “Their hives are amazing works of architecture. And the honey they create is sweeter than any food man can devise. When I was a lad I used to spend hours observing their comings and goings. Mankind would do well to emulate them.”

“Your passion is evident,” I said. “I’m surprised you did not pursue biology or another study that related to the natural sciences.”

Holmes reached for his pipe and filled it. He had smoked a small bowl at the table after dinner, but since we had retired to the library with the sherry decanter, he had refrained until now. “The natural sciences – that was my father’s realm.”

“Was it?” Now he had my interest.

“He loved the natural world and made it his chief study,” said Holmes, puffing thoughtfully. “He was also a talented artist, as were all those in the Vernet family. He took his degree from Cambridge at 17 and immediately began to travel, searching out strange flora and fauna and drawing them. That’s how he found the woman who became my mother. She was also an artist and a naturalist.”

“They sound perfectly suited,” I said.

“They were,” Holmes replied. “They met in Boston. My father gave a lecture at Harvard and my mother attended.”

“She was residing in America at the time?”

“She was American,” Holmes corrected. “Her father was a professor at that university and a great believer in the education of females. My mother was a noted Bluestocking and a confirmed spinster until she met my father. He brought her back to Sherringford and they were wed. My grandfather was not at all pleased, but he could hardly protest his only surviving son’s selection of a bride, especially considering my father was the product of my grandfather’s illicit liaison with Mlle. Yvonne.”

“Quite,” I coughed. 

“Mycroft was born within a year of their marriage,” Holmes continued. “I came along seven years later. Neither of my parents were – how shall I put it? – enamoured of children. They loved travel and they loved their studies. My brother and I placed after those pursuits by some distance. But we never felt any lack. We had first-rate tutors in every subject, but especially the sciences. My parents were constantly abroad and my grandfather always in London with his various mistresses, but Mycroft and I were free to do what we liked, as long as we devoted part of our time to study. And we both avoided being sent away to a noxious public school full of snobs and junior sodomites. For that I will always be grateful to the old man.”

“It sounds like a lonely life.” I could not help but think of my own forlorn hours at school, my mother dead and my father and brother little concerned about my welfare or happiness.

“Solitary, but not lonely,” Holmes shrugged. “I made my own life even as a boy. I studied and in my spare time I read the popular papers – the servants gladly obtained for me the most lurid of the penny presses in return for a small fraction of my allowance. Crime in all its aspects intrigued me from an early age. I remember reading ‘Macbeth’ and thinking that the man might well have gotten away with his murder if only he had not depended on an hysterical female as his partner in crime!”

I laughed out loud at that. “You would have made a very singular literary critic, Holmes!”

“Thank you, my dear boy,” he said, bowing in my direction. “I take that as a high compliment, especially from a man whose taste in literature is impeccable.”

“Hardly,” I sniffed. 

“I mean it, my boy. There is no being on earth whose approbation I treasure more,” he returned. He was staring into the dwindling fire, his fine profile sharpened by the shadows of the evening. “You ask if I were ever lonely as a boy. I did not understand then that I was missing the companionship other boys take for granted. Mycroft and I took our singularity as the natural order of things and we turned to each other when we needed the encouragement that might otherwise been offered by a parent or adult mentor. But you have met my brother – he’s not a warm or easy man and he was not warm or easy as a youth. He was not someone in whom I could confide my thoughts or dreams. In fact, I never considered that such a person might exist. A person in whom I could always rely, always trust, and always know that he would forgive, no matter what damnable offense I might commit in my bumbling, blockheaded manner.”

“Holmes, I...”

“I think you should go up to bed,” he said, cutting me off. “We will make an early start tomorrow and there is much work to do in London if the Griffith case is to proceed. We could tarry here another day or even a week, but what help will that be to Young Charles?”

“None whatsoever,” I acknowledged. I stood and felt a cramp in my bad leg. I shook it out as best I was able, but I was glad a hot bath awaited me upstairs. “Are you coming up?”

“Shortly,” said Holmes, relighting his pipe. “I need to puzzle over a few things before I’m ready to be claimed by sleep.”

I left him in his chair and made my way into the main hall. 

“Oh, Doctor!” said Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. “Your tub is ready. James and Henry have filled it for you. Mr. Lovell says you and Mr. Sherlock are leaving in the morning.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins. Business takes us back to London,” I said. “But I hope we will return for a longer stay, perhaps this summer.”

She smiled. “We are not used to visitors, but you and the young master are always welcome!”

It sounded odd to hear Holmes referred to as the young master. I tried to picture him as a boy, but never had a man seemed to have been born fully formed as did Sherlock Holmes. 

“Did you know Mr. Sherlock as a boy?”

“That I did!” she offered. “And Mr. Mycroft, too. I started in service in this house when I was 13, as an under-parlourmaid, so I’ve seen many doings in this family. Come here, Doctor.” She beckoned me to the stairway and held her candle aloft. “This is Mr. Mycroft and Mr. Sherlock as lads.” She showed me a portrait of two children in velvet jackets, their faces solemn. Mycroft even then was a stout fellow, while Holmes had bright, knowing eyes that pierced right to the heart.

“They look melancholy,” I pronounced.

“Perhaps it seems so,” she conceded. “But they were full of pranks as well. Mr. Sherlock was as mischievous a lad as any in the county. I always thought he had a touch of the devil in him. The old Earl used to say it was because his mother was an American – that she must be descended from a tribe of wild Indians to have whelped such an unruly pup!”

I snorted at that characterization. “From what I hear of the Earl, he should have been the last person to upbraid anyone for their bad behavior!”

Mrs. Jenkins covered her mouth in forbidden glee. “Oh, Doctor, His Lordship was a Tartar, that he was! But don’t be saying that I told you so!” She moved up the stairs. “Here’s the old gentleman himself.”

The Earl, Holmes’ grandfather, looked a right reprobate. He was dressed somberly, but had the flushed face of a heavy drinker and the red-rimmed, leering eyes of a practiced sinner.

“He doesn’t look like either of the brothers,” I commented.

“Mr. Mycroft is the picture of his father, except more...” Mrs. Jenkins hesitated, unwilling to say a word against her master.

“Upholstered?” I suggested. But what I meant was corpulent.

“Yes, indeed,” she nodded. “Here is Mr. Osric and his bride.” She pointed to a smaller portrait of a young couple, the man standing behind the seated woman, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. They both looked bland and nondescript, hardly the parents of two brilliant minds such as the Holmes brothers. “Mr. Sherlock favors... his grandmother’s side of the family.”

“You mean the Earl’s mistress’ family? The Vernets?” 

“Yes,” said the housekeeper. “There’s a small portrait of the Mademoiselle in the Earl’s bedroom in the other wing, painted by her brother. They say she came from a family of famous artists over in France. Mr. Osric certainly loved to make pictures. There are boxes and boxes of drawings and paintings he and his lady made on their travels, but they are stored away and no one looks at them nowadays.”

“Did Holmes or Mycroft ever show an affinity for drawing?” It seemed curious that neither of them had inherited the talent, with such a strong inclination on both sides.

“Mr. Sherlock did, when he was a small lad, but he never took it up when he got bigger,” said Mrs. Jenkins as we continued up the stairway. “He was a funny boy – he had his likes and dislikes right from the start. If he couldn’t be the best at something, he didn’t want to do it at all. It was like that business with his mathematics tutor.”

I frowned. “What business was that?”

“Mr. Sherlock showed a great ability for numbers and such like, so the old Earl brought a friend of Mr. Mycroft’s from Cambridge who was supposedly a great scholar in that subject to tutor the lad. Mr. Sherlock was only 14 or thereabouts, but he was already as sharp as any grown man. He took to Mr. Mycroft’s friend like I’ve never seen him take to anyone. For months they were inseparable. And then...” she paused, a troubled expression on her face.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. Mr. Sherlock suddenly took against his tutor. They must have had a falling out over some little thing or other. You know how boys are – they take things to heart. Mr. Sherlock refused to study mathematics anymore. He told the old Earl that if he couldn’t be the best, then he’d rather be nothing. That put the Earl into a fury! Then the lad said he wouldn’t be in the same house with his tutor and demanded he be sent away. The poor man needed the money, I think, which was why he was teaching the boy in the first place. Scholars are not rich gentlemen as rule, are they, Doctor?”

“No, they are not,” I allowed.

“In the end the tutor was dismissed,” said the housekeeper. “Afterwards Mr. Sherlock was even more obstinate and solitary in his ways. He was even short with the servants, which he’d never been before. Whenever the Earl or Mr. Mycroft tried to get out of him what had happened between him and his tutor, his face clouded over and he dug in his heels and would say not a word about it. He was ever a stubborn young lad.”

“And equally stubborn as a man,” I confirmed.

“You would know that as well as anyone, Doctor,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “Being his... his only real friend. I mean, that ever he’s had.”

“I suppose I am,” I replied. We stopped before my chamber door.

“Keep watch over him, Doctor,” Mrs. Jenkins entreated me. “Mr. Sherlock never had anyone who cared for him enough to do that. But I think you care enough. As a friend, I mean,” she added quickly. “A good and kindly friend.”

“I promise to do my best, good lady,” I said, bidding her good-night.

I thought about Mrs. Jenkins’s words as I undressed and prepared for my bath. That no one had ever cared enough for Holmes, as a boy or as a man. Until I came along. But what was my responsibility to my friend? And did he understand how that caring sometimes skirted what was decent and honourable – at least in my own conflicted mind?

I was glad at the thought that we would soon return to 221b and resume our ordinary existence. 

Little did I know how wrong I was to be at that supposition.


	20. “An Invitation to a Gallery”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special invitation comes to Baker Street.

Monday morning found Holmes and myself once again in Mycroft’s leaking carriage, lurching towards London in a driving rainstorm.

“Beastly weather, this,” I sighed. And, as an actor on cue, Gladstone, reclining on the floor of the vehicle, farted loudly and then sighed along with me.

“Poor old Gladstone,” Holmes laughed. “He’s not as young as he used to be.”

“None of us are,” I observed.

“Nonsense!” Holmes exclaimed. “I am twice the man I was at 20 – stronger in body, more alert in faculties, and certainly my intellect is honed to a knife’s point, far sharper than I could ever have imagined as a mere callow youth.”

“I congratulate you on your studied improvement at such an advanced age,” I said sourly. “I, on the other hand, nurse a damaged leg, suffer the remnants of a wounded shoulder, and endure a stomach ravaged by enteric dysentery, as well as an occasional recurrence of malarial fever. And, on top of all that, I am losing my hair.”

Holmes frowned. “I don’t see how any of that signifies, my dear fellow. Your physical imperfections are more than set off by the experience you have gained on your life’s journey. You are, in general, as healthy a horse. Your eye is keen, as demonstrated by the fact that you are a crack shot with a pistol. In spite of your leg, you are agile enough to fend off multiple miscreants with your sword-stick, as you have proven time and again. You have thus saved my sorry life more than once. And as to your hair – such vanities are beneath you, Watson. I don’t see the ladies at all hindered by a slight recession in your hairline.”

“The ladies?” I huffed. “How would you, of all men, know what the ladies like?”

“I observe,” said Holmes, lifting a cunning eyebrow. “You charmed even that old dragon Mrs. Jenkins, and that is not a mean feat. She told me she wishes we would visit more often. You never did get to view the Folly, did you? Perhaps next time. The views are deucedly romantic, if one believes in such twaddle.”

There was no answer to that.

“And...” he added in his baiting manner. “You had Major Griffith’s good lady eating out of your hand like a prize cow.”

“Don’t be vulgar!” I returned. “Sometimes I wonder at you, Holmes. I find that you are the scion of an old and noble family, brought up in opulent circumstances, obtaining every advantage, and yet you insist on behaving as if you were raised in a stableyard!”

“I thought good Englishmen revered those born in stables?” Holmes sniggered.

“And blasphemous to boot!” I appended.

He bowed. “As you will have it, Father Watson.”

I rolled my eyes and settled back in my seat, ignoring him for the rest of the long, wet journey.

 

***

 

221b was little changed in our brief absence, except for a large pile from the Post, which Holmes immediately pounced on.

“I thought you were eager to get on with your investigation?” I prompted as I watched him sprawl upon the divan, letter opener in hand.

“I have,” he replied. “At first dawn, before we left Sherringford, I sent telegrams to a variety of my contacts. I should be hearing back from them in due course.”

As he went through the mail, sorting out mine – mostly bills – as he went along, I looked over the newspapers.

“I say, my boy.” Holmes sat up and leaned towards me. “What do you make of this?” He thrust an engraved card into my face.

It was an invitation to the opening of a new art gallery in Bond Street. Scribbled at the bottom were the words: “You will find something of interest here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“The Glendalough Gallery. I have never heard of the place.”

“Neither have I,” said Holmes, turning it over with his long fingers. “Glendalough is an Irish placename, is it not?”

“I believe so.”

“Yet this handwriting is not Irish,” Holmes opined. “It looks more like that of a man educated at a second-rate public school, probably in Derbyshire. With some Army background. Right-handed, too. But that’s obvious.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “Obvious.” I always agree with Holmes. It makes life so much easier.

“So I doubt the invitation was sent by the owner of the gallery, who must be Irish to have given it such an expressly Hibernian name, but by a subordinate. Or by one who has only a peripheral connection to the actual gallery.” Once he’d gotten hold of something he was like a terrier with a rat, determined to worry it to death.

“Undoubtedly.” I set down my newspaper. “Why would they want you to go there specifically? You have shown little interest in art in the years I have known you.”

“Perhaps they are featuring works by my distant relative, M. Vernet,” Holmes speculated. “Or... someone needs my help and is afraid to come here. Or I am being lured for nefarious purposes.”

“Then ignore it,” I suggested. 

“You know me better than that, Watson,” said Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. “Mr. Holmes, one of your lads is here and wishes to speak with you.”

“Capital!” Holmes bolted off the divan. “Send him up!”

A strange knot clenched my stomach. “Is that... Young Wiggins coming?”

Holmes cocked his head. “Wiggins has not been in my employ for an age, dear boy. I know these street urchins all look alike to a gentlemen, but surely you’ve noticed that Mr. Wiggins no longer comes to the house.”

“Quite,” I said, turning my face away. “I misspoke.”

“Mr. Michael Wiggins has a situation in town. He’s doing well, I’m told.”

I could feel Holmes’ eyes upon me, searching. “Good to know.”

“Young Quigley is my current lieutenant. I am hopeful that he has some intelligence for me.” Holmes paced, his hands behind his back. “If you would excuse me, Watson, but I think the lad will be more forthcoming if it is only the two of us. He’s a bit of a bolter.”

“Certainly.” I gathered up my newspapers. “I need to unpack my valise.”

“Here,” said Holmes, handing me the invitation card. “Why not go to the gallery? It might prove amusing and they are certain to offer free food and drink. I will meet you there after I finish my business and then we’ll have supper at the Café Royal or the dining room at the Langham. How does that sound?”

I was tired from the long journey, but I was also restless. “Perhaps it would do me good to get out. And we haven’t dined at the Langham in a dog’s age.”

“I know it’s one of your favorites.” Holmes’ hand was on my shoulder. “The beefsteak is first rate. Good British food and none of that Frenchy stuff, right?”

“Quite right,” I replied.

“I will have a hansom sent ’round and then meet you there in an hour or so,” said Holmes. “We’ll make a night of it.”

“Yes,” I said. “A night of it.”

And I went to my room to change into something more suitable to wear to a gallery opening in Mayfair.


	21. “A Viewing of a Few Portraits”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson goes to the gallery to see some paintings.

The moment I stepped into the gallery on Bond Street and handed Holmes’ invitation to the attendant, I knew I had made a dreadful miscalculation. But it was too late for retreat.

Although the establishment was in the center of Mayfair, the patrons infesting the place were... well, they were not strictly Bohemian. My friend Holmes is a true Bohemian: a man at odds with the common practices of society, but not in a way that is mere show. Holmes may be an eccentric, but he is not a poseur or a charlatan.

No, the rabble at the Glendalough Gallery were beyond Bohemian. They were of that breed who call themselves Aesthetes. Powdered dandies, their hair curled and smelling of hyacinth, this motley mob lounged in the entryway, swilling free champagne and gossiping in loud voices.

“Fancy what just came in,” drawled one languid fellow, a green scarf carelessly flung about his neck. “That suit looks like it was made for a holiday in Cardiff!”

“No, my dear, a coal mine might improve it,” replied his friend, a slender youth in a lavender waistcoat. “They let anyone in here, it seems.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the first fellow, looking me up and down. “I don’t like the suit, but I certainly like what’s underneath it.”

“Good Lord, Bunny! He’s got a cane! I wager he’s old enough to be your father.” The friend rolled his eyes. “And not even rich! Not a ring or a diamond stickpin to be seen.”

“I like them older.” The young scoundrel licked his lips lewdly. “They always have a lot in their bag of tricks.”

“Excuse me.” I brushed past the insolent pair to get to the main salon.

The first fellow touched the sleeve of my coat. “Don’t mind Cedric, my good man. He’s worse for too much champagne. Would you like a glass? Shall I call the waiter?”

“No, thank you.” I walked by and didn’t look back.

Impertinent pups!

But my cheeks burned with shame when I remembered that once I had been much like them. Those were days I now preferred to forget. As if I ever could.

A waiter came by with a tray and I took a glass of champagne, downing it too quickly. I must be careful when I drink. I don’t have a good head for spirits, but the desire for them is strong in my blood. It must be the Irish strain in me. Alcohol killed my brother outright and I was told my maternal grandfather succumbed to the demon as well, even though the man was a respected physician who should have known better.

Of course, the bubbly went directly to my head. It always does.

I discarded the glass and proceeded into the main salon. It was packed with more poseurs, mixed in with respectably fashionable folk, drinking and attending to the paintings, which were mostly portraits. A knot of people stood in front of one particular canvas, a large portrait in a gilt frame displayed prominently in the center of the far wall.

I stared at it – and my heart stopped.

It was the painting of my mother, Marianne Healy Watson, that once stood in my father’s study and which I had last seen in my brother’s house many years before. 

When I returned from the East, my health broken and my fortunes at a low ebb, I had expected to resume residing with my only living relative, as I had done throughout my medical studies. But upon arriving in London, I learned that my brother Henry, his law practice and business ventures in a shambles, had left for the West Indies in a frantic attempt to shore up his fortunes. Alas, he staked his future in Jamaican rum, but more rum went down his throat than was exported and that business failed as well. To my dismay, I found my brother’s house shut up and the contents, including my mother’s portrait, disbursed. I attempted to trace it, since it was the only family heirloom I cared anything for, but to no avail.

And now it was here.

I elbowed my way to the front of the throng.

“Lady in Blue,” I read. “By Emile Jean Horace Vernet.”

“A pretty thing, isn’t it?” The voice purred in my ear. “A lovely female, but not so fetching as her darling son. Isn’t that so, Johnny Lad?”

At that moment I felt as though the blood in my veins had turned to ice water.

“What are you doing here?” I did not turn around. That was one face I never desired to see again as long as I lived.

“Enjoying the works of art,” said the Irishman smoothly. “Vernet was an accomplished painter of historical scenes, but I prefer his portraits. They have more soul, don’t you agree, Johnny Lad? This one especially. A beautiful woman is always a fit subject for art. But so is a beautiful young man.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You have changed, John,” he whispered. “I hardly knew you. I might have passed you on the street, unnoticed.”

“I wish you would have.” There was no avoiding it. I turned and faced him. 

He looked older. Much older. With a waxed mustache and a pince-nez he looked a genial scholar, but his grey eyes still blazed with a malevolent light.

“I thought you were long gone from London.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he said. “I have never abandoned London. London is the center of everything, but especially of all my endeavours. I spend part of the year at my college. I hold a chair in Higher Mathematics. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I have been mentioned in ‘The Times’ more than once.”

“I fear I have neglected to follow your illustrious career.” My heart was thundering in my chest from being so close to him.

“That is something you should never neglect, Johnny Lad,” the Irishman replied. “Because we have unfinished business, you and I.”

“We have no business at all,” I said, steadying myself. “When I left you it was forever, as you well know. You let me go and that was the end of it. Except it is you who keep coming back to me. It is not the other way around.”

He smiled that snake-like smile. “I knew my invitation would find its mark. But perhaps you were not my target.”

“Who, then?” I retorted.

His lips came close. “Your lover. I had a desire to observe him. To see what had claimed you for so many years. I wished to see you two together. To understand your fascination.”

I recoiled from the man. “He is not my lover! He is my dear friend and companion. But you could never understand such a relationship. Everything you touch, everything you think upon must be as sordid and corrupt as your own self.”

The Irishman’s eyes narrowed. “Methinks the boy doth protest too much.”

Being near to him made my skin crawl. “I am not a boy, as well you know.”

“No,” said the Irishman. “You are a man. The beautiful boy that once was has been destroyed. Beaten down and trampled in the mire! And whose fault is that? Whose, my lad?”

“I made my choices,” I said. “I have no regrets.”

“No regrets?” He stared at me with incredulity. “I offered you wealth, a life of leisure and pleasure. You were pampered and catered to. You had everything you could wish for!”

“Except my freedom,” I replied. “Except my body and my soul.”

The Irishman took me by the elbow and pulled me out of the crowd and into a passageway off the main salon. I hesitated for a moment, but then I went. I didn’t fear him anymore. My fear had long since been replaced by loathing.

“You are a fool, John,” he said. “Look at you! What have you done to yourself?”

“It was life that did it,” I said. “Life and experience. And war and suffering.”

“I told you before you left for India that it was a confounded mistake!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in anger. “It was one thing to waste your time with useless medical studies, but to throw away your life in the Army of the damned British Empire? You could have ruled a real empire by my side, here in London! Instead, you almost lost your life and did lose your health – and your looks! – in a cause that is beyond worthless.”

I closed my eyes and pictured myself when I first returned from India, friendless, ill, and almost out of money. That is when the Irishman appeared again, as he always seemed to appear at the crossroads of my life. He stared at me with disdain, berated me, and told me I was now ruined, crippled and worthless to anyone. Then he begged me to come back to him. I refused. Two days later I made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes and my life was settled on a different path.

“I served my Queen and Country and I am not sorry for it,” I declared. “You may not believe this, but my life is more than satisfactory. I don’t have a surfeit of money, but I am comfortable. I have a small medical practice in which I trust I contribute to the common good. And, contrary to what you may think, I have a loyal companion in Mr. Holmes. We are well suited to each other and live as friends – and nothing more!”

“I have eyes everywhere in this city – never forget that,” the Irishman hissed. “I know how you live and I know where you live. I have known it since the day you moved into that rat hole in Baker Street. It is beneath you, Johnny Lad! And Mr. Sherlock Holmes is beneath you. He fancies himself a genius, but he is a fraud. His egotism verges on the unbalanced. Mark my words – he will end up in an asylum before long. There’s a wide streak of insanity in the Sherringford family. The old Earl was barking mad – and so will be Mycroft and Sherlock in their turn.”

“What do you know of it?” I sniffed.

“More than you can imagine,” he said darkly. “I could strike at your ridiculous paramour at any time, but I refrain. Always remember that: he’s only alive because I do not wish to kill him – yet.”

“Get away from me!” I jerked my arm from his grasp. “I don’t have to listen to such rot! And Holmes is not my paramour!” 

The Irishman’s lip twisted. “Then you do not know yourself, Johnny Lad. You are in a fog of denial. But Sherlock is not. No, he knows all too well.”

“It is time for me to leave this place.” I brushed off my coat-sleeve where his hand had touched me.

“Not yet,” the Irishman insisted. “You have not seen the portraits in this annex. They are quite rare, by a painter not as well-known as Monsieur Vernet, but still very good. An Italian who specialized in works for gentlemen of a particular taste. These pieces are by invitation only. They were the ones I wished for your friend Mr. Holmes to see. I know he will find them intriguing.”

The Irishman opened a door to a side salon. A few gentleman were inside, viewing a selection of smaller studies.

If I had been heart-sick before, now I was crushed by what I saw there.

I knew the works. And I knew the painter, a short, stocky Florentine with a profuse beard. I remember vividly the days when he came to the villa in Capri with his paints and canvases. The sun was hot and I drank a lot of wine – I was always drinking wine then, the vintage they call the Tears of Christ. Wine is the water of forgetfulness, they say, but I have not forgotten. The Irishman sat in the shade and watched while the little man painted.

  
  
  
<

“They are beautiful,” whispered the Irishman. “And you are beautiful still, in them, John. Captured in your matchless beauty, forever in time. Forever.” And then he laughed.

His laughter echoed in my ears as I fled from the room.

And straight into the arms of Sherlock Holmes.


	22. “A Revolver Revealed”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are getting deeper into the mystery...

 

“Good God, Watson!” cried Holmes, upholding me. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”

Little did Holmes suspect how close to the truth was his conjecture. 

“I... I need some air,” I murmured. “Let us leave this place – immediately!”

Holmes peered at me with his relentless hazel eyes. “What is the matter, my dear friend? I have rarely seen you so flustered.”

“It’s beastly hot in here. I... I had a glass of champagne and... I’m a trifle dizzy. I must be coming down with a fever... my old malaria... or something.”

“Perhaps you should sit down?” Holmes guided me towards the main salon. “There are chairs over here. Did you notice that large portrait of the female in blue? That’s a Vernet, and a damned fine one! I knew there was a reason I was sent that invitation.”

The portrait of my mother on one hand – and the Irishman on the other! I needed to leave before I endured a complete mental collapse.

“Please, Holmes,” I pleaded. “As my friend, I beg you – let us quit this place! I cannot stay here another moment!”

Now Holmes’ face was all concern. “Of course, my dearest fellow. Come then.” He took my hand and led me from the gallery and out onto the pavement.

I gulped the fresh night air as a man who was drowning and is pulled from the water to safety. We stood for a number of minutes as I regained my faculties. Holmes did not question me, but stood by quietly, his hand on my shoulder.

After a short while I began to walk briskly down Bond Street, Holmes at my side.

“Regent Street is only a short stride away,” Holmes pointed out. “Are you well enough to proceed to the Langham?”

I nodded. “Yes, I am quite well. It was only a... a momentary lapse. It has passed.”

“You frightened me, Watson,” said Holmes, his voice low and almost caressing. “Your face – I cannot describe it except to say you looked haunted. If you wish to confide in me, I promise that any confidences will be kept to the very grave.”

I shuddered at the word ‘grave.’ All I could think on was the Irishman telling me that Holmes was only alive because he did not wish to kill him – yet.

“I... cannot. Don’t force me to speak more, Holmes.”

“I would never wish to cause you distress, my boy,” he replied. “The Langham dining room is a welcoming presence. You will feel better once you have had a meal. This has been too long a day.”

I paused on the pavement. “I don’t think I could swallow even a single bite. Let us return home. A good night’s sleep is the remedy that would suit me most.”

Holmes’s face was full of conflicting expressions. “I cannot go back to Baker Street at this time, Watson. But I will put you in a cab and send you home. You need your rest. I will give you a full report of the night’s work in the morrow.”

“The night’s work? Whatever do you mean?”

Holmes smiled. “The Irregulars have come through again, my dear friend. Quigley brought me intelligence of Young Griffith’s blackmailer. I was only awaiting a later hour to catch him unawares, but now is as good a time as any, I suppose. You return to 221b and I will make my way to Soho.”

“Soho?” 

“Yes,” said Holmes. “To the lodgings of one William Fisher, full-time pimp and part-time blackmailer. He resides just off Old Compton Street in Soho.”

“So, you found him! Is the man dangerous?” I asked in alarm.

Holmes shrugged. “All men are dangerous when cornered. That is why I have taken precautions.” He opened up his black frock coat to reveal my American revolver tucked into his belt.

“Good Lord, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You think I will let you run about the streets of London with that thing in your waistband? Is it loaded?”

“Of course,” he returned.

Now Sherlock Holmes is many things – a machine of logic and deduction, a loyal friend, and a boon companion. But, alas, he’s a menace with firearms. He can get off a decent shot once in a blue moon, but otherwise he’s more likely to shoot himself in the foot than the criminal he is aiming at. Which is why carrying the revolver has always been my responsibility.

“Give that to me!” I exclaimed, taking it out of his trousers and into my own hand. “If you believe I will let you plunge into darkest Soho by yourself with only this infernal thing for protection, then more fool you!”

“Ah!” Holmes laughed. “Good old Watson! I knew I could count on you. Always at the ready whenever the bugle calls. Come, my dear boy – the game is afoot!”

“Not that one again,” I sighed.

He lifted an eyebrow at me. “Of course! What else?”

“Elementary,” I replied. “Pray, lead the way.”


	23. “A Pair of Suspects Apprehended”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspects apprehended?

Soho has long had an unsavory reputation that is, in my humble opinion, well-deserved. Not only is it a den of vice and a refuge for disreputable foreigners, but an unhealthy aura hangs over its wretched streets, a remnant of the days of the infamous cholera epidemic of 1854. I well remember one of my professors at medical school relating to us the horrific scenes he had witnessed as a young doctor during that dark interlude.

“This is the place, Watson,” said Holmes.

“But how do you know, Holmes?” I asked. The buildings in these dark streets had no numbers to distinguish them.

“Quigley said to look for the third on the right side, with the faded red door and the broken knocker.” Holmes turned the handle and the door swung open. “It does not take a professional cracksman to enter any of these abodes.”

“Assuredly.” The door was already broken and the reek of urine emanated from the gloom within. “But this entrance seems especially... distasteful. Not to mention odorous.”

“It’s the rear passageway,” Holmes stated. “I noted a small crowd of malingerers in the main street. Quigley claims this building is connected to its fellow in front. We simply go up the backstairs to the third floor and through another doorway to find our villain, Mr. William Fisher. Have you the revolver at the ready, Watson?”

“Yes.” I took out the pistol and checked the chamber. “Ready and loaded.”

“Good man,” said Holmes. “Let us advance.”

The halls of these old lodging houses are unlit and their floors uneven, so we proceeded with due care. On the third floor Holmes pushed open the connecting door and I followed him through to the adjoining structure. He silently prowled the hallway, his head cocked, listening.

“This one,” said Holmes, his ear to the door. “There seems a disturbance in our Mr. Fisher’ room. Perhaps he and his compatriots are enjoying their ill-gotten gains. Or arguing over them.”

I clutched the pistol tightly. “Let us hope they will give up without the need for violence.”

“That is a faint hope with such knaves!” Holmes cried as he kicked open the wooden door with a strength that always amazes me. “Stand down, Mr. Fisher! You will not escape now!”

“So,” said a familiar voice. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And Dr. Watson as well. What in the name of hell are you two doing here?”

Holmes and I stood, gaping, at the sight of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and one of his lackeys, Constable Clark, standing next to a bloody figure lying supine on the filthy floor.

“We are looking for William Fisher,” Holmes proclaimed. “In connection with a case I am in the process of solving.”

“If you wish to question Mr. Fisher, you are an hour too late.” Lestrade glanced down at the corpse, which was already beginning to stiffen. “We have everything under control here, Mr. Holmes. And you may put away your gun, Doctor. We have the victim – and we have the perpetrators. There is no need for your services tonight.”

“How did you get here?” Holmes demanded. Frustration was etched on his face. He hated being bested at his own game, but he especially could not stomach being bested by the weaselly Inspector Lestrade. “Did someone hear the crime being committed and summon the police?”

“No,” said Lestrade. “If you must know, we were tipped off. An informant sent us word that a murder was about to be carried out. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived it was too late to stop the grievous offense. Mr. Fisher had already met his sad demise.”

“But we caught the murderers red-handed, Mr. Holmes!” boasted Constable Clark.

“Capital,” Holmes uttered with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Murderers, plural, did you say?”

“Two of ’em,” Clark replied proudly. “A right pair of customers for the hangman.”

“Shut it, Constable!” Lestrade snapped. “If Mr. Holmes wants to know more of this crime, he can read about it in the morning newspapers.”

“I am not a casual observer here, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “I am seeking redress for a young gentleman who was being blackmailed by this William Fisher. Others must also have been abused by the victim. And he may have had accomplices. Blackmailers of Fisher’ class rarely work alone. I wish to question the suspects. Have they been removed from the premises?”

“They’re in the next room,” Lestrade grunted. “But you have no right to put any questions to them, Mr. Holmes. They are officially under arrest and therefore in my personal custody. This is my case and I consider it closed!”

“Then you are an ass,” Holmes muttered under his breath. He glanced at me. Then he stepped swiftly to the inner door and opened it before Lestrade had a chance to protest. 

Another police constable was standing guard over the two suspects, who sat forlornly upon an unmade bed. One was a dark-haired young man who twisted his cloth cap nervously in his stained hands. The other was a girl of about 15, her long yellow tresses dishevelled and her face tear-stained.

“I was afraid of this,” said Holmes, shaking his head.

“Wiggins!” I exclaimed in shock. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Doctor!” he cried, his eyes brightening. “And you, too, Guv’nor! I knew you’d come and spring us. We didn’t do nothin’, I swear it! When we come in, Bill was already stone dead.”

“So,” said Holmes. “Mr. Michael Wiggins, formerly of the Baker Street Irregulars. And, if am not mistaken, this is Dilly Mitchell, the paramour of our client, Mr. Charles Griffith.”

“This?” I gawked at her in dismay. “This is a boy?”

“I’m not a boy,” the wretched creature whined. “I’m Dilly!”

“Don’t mind her, Doctor,” said Wiggins in his usual cheeky manner. “She’s confused, she is. Dilly’s always a trifle confused.”

“Not as confused as I am,” I confessed.

“This is not to be tolerated!” Lestrade barked. “These are my prisoners, Mr. Holmes. We are only waiting for the conveyance to take them away. You have no right to question them!”

“I have every right,” Holmes retorted. “Mr. Wiggins was formerly in my employ. And Mr. Mitchell is connected intimately to my client and his case.”

“If you don’t stand down, Holmes, I’ll run you in!” Lestrade brayed. “And you as well, Doctor! So clear out, the lot of you. If you want to speak to the accused, you’ll have to see them tomorrow at the gaol.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “There’s nothing further we can do here since your draft horses have trampled the crime scene so badly it might as well be a public thoroughfare.”

“Don’t let them take us, Guv’nor!” Wiggins gasped as the constable dragged him to his feet and began to bind his hands. “We didn’t do it!”

“I’m sorry, Wiggins,” said Holmes. “I will endeavour to get to the bottom of this. But there is nothing I can do at this moment. I’m afraid you will have to go.”

“Doctor,” Wiggins pleaded. “You’ll do somethin’, won’t you? You must!”

“We will retain a lawyer for you,” I said. “Buck up, Mick, and don’t despair.”

“I’ll try,” said the lad, but his face was filled with terror. 

Constable Clark came into the room and seized Dilly Mitchell by the arm, but the frail boy crumpled in a dead faint. 

“Be careful!” Wiggins protested. “Dilly ain’t well. She’ll never last in the clink, Guv’nor. She’s got a bad chest.”

“She won’t need to last very long,” said Lestrade. “This is an open and shut case. Look at his hands, Mr. Holmes. Covered in blood they are. He’s the murderer and the other is his helper. They’ll both swing for it – and promptly, too.”

“No!” Wiggins wailed. “Doctor! For the love of God! You know me. You know I wouldn’t do nothin’ like this!”

“I know, Mick,” I said. “Try to calm yourself.”

“I’ll try,” he sniffed. “But will you do somethin’ for me, Doctor?”

“Yes, whatever you wish.”

He leaned close to me. “Will you look after my cat? She’s shut up in my room. If I’m put away, Moggy’s sure to starve to death.”

“Cat? I don’t remember a cat in your room.” I spoke before I was able to think of the consequences.

“Dilly was prob’ly watching her. She has the room next to mine. Some gents don’t like a cat prowlin’ ’round the place when they’re on their game, you know what I mean? But you’ll do that, won’t you, Doctor? Take care of Moggy for me? Please?”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed. “I’ll see to your cat.”

“Thank you, Doctor!” Wiggins bent and kissed my hand. “You’re too kind. And you, too, Guv. I know you won’t let me and Dilly down!”

“That’s enough of that,” said Lestrade. “The van is here. Take these two away.”

Mick Wiggins was pulled along roughly and the swooning Dilly Mitchell carried out of the flat while Lestrade stood over the corpse of William Fisher, a satisfied look in his eye.

“Another case solved by Scotland Yard,” he gloated. “And I’ll bid you gentleman good-night.”

Holmes and I walked out into the night air. A small crowd had gathered in the narrow street to watch the charade of the dangerous criminals being taken away. We waited until Lestrade and his constables got into the van and clattered off before heading back up the alley to Old Compton Street.

“You don’t think they did it, do you?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Holmes spat. “Lestrade is a fool. Did you see the wound on the fellow? His throat was slit from the front, which must have sprayed arterial blood to Kingdom Come, yet Wiggins had only a trace on his hands and Dilly none at all. I suspect they walked in shortly after the real murderers left and Mick touched the body briefly to see if Fisher was still alive. It looks as if the pair were set up, Watson. Someone knew they were going to see Fisher and tipped off Lestrade, who arrived just in time to arrest them. He’s a blind idiot not to see the obvious!”

“If they are innocent, then we must do all we can to free them,” I affirmed.

“We will, my dear boy,” said Holmes. 

We then walked in silence down Old Compton towards Charing Cross, looking for a cab. We paused on the corner. The hour was late and the spring fog heavy over the slumbering city.

“I believe Mick Wiggins’ lodging is not far,” Holmes commented. “Somewhere between here and Covent Garden.”

I didn’t reply.

“You’ve been there,” he said. 

“Yes,” I answered. What more could I say?

“I see,” said Holmes. “It’s been a very long day. We’ll see to Wiggins’ cat tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow. We’ll see to it.”


	24. “An Ordinary China Cup”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very simple thing – it seems.

I woke the next morning in my bed in Baker Street, drenched in a cold sweat. The nightmares were back with a cruel vengeance

I will not describe the dreams I had, except to say that they revisited my deepest, darkest fears. The disturbing events of the previous night were nothing compared to the terrors that met me in the land of sleep.

When I arose I found it was still early. I knew Holmes would be at breakfast, perhaps perusing the morning papers for news of the capture of two suspected murderers in a low lodging house in Soho.

What was to be done? Mick Wiggins and his frail compatriot were in very deep difficulty. But Holmes would find a way to clear them. He had to find a way! The alternative for them was unthinkable.

I dressed slowly. My leg and shoulder were both stiff from my recent exertions. I had two patients scheduled for the morning, but there was time in the afternoon for a visit to the Turkish Bath on Northumberland Avenue. The hot steam and the strong hands of the attendants were a better balm than any drug, especially in this damp weather. Holmes and I had often found an hour or two of solace there, lying side by side on the couches, wrapped in thin sheets, chatting in relaxed camaraderie. It was one of the few purely physical pleasures my friend allowed himself.

But...

Perhaps he would not wish to accompany me there anymore. Perhaps I should not assume that everything would remain as it had been after the revelations of the night.

Perhaps...

But I often over-think. It is one of my most grievous faults. Outsiders who know Holmes and I only superficially think that Holmes is a brooding, peculiar, and brilliant character, while I am some slow, blustering dolt who lives solely in the shadow of my more flamboyant companion. But the truth is that I also have my own eccentricities and moods. When I first returned from India I was sunk for months in a depression I feared I would never shed. Only the reappearance of the Irishman and his offer of a renewed association shook me out of my torpor and forced me to take hold of my life and remake it.

Remake it in the company of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, perhaps in his shadow. But that was my own choice.

I told the Irishman I was not sorry for the choices I have made and I reiterate that statement. I would not trade these past eight years for any amount of money or any measure of fame or fortune.

But now I needed to face the truth. My feelings for Holmes had grown over the years until they threatened to overwhelm me. My misstep with Mick Wiggins and the weekend at Sherringford Hall had only confirmed the power of my... my attraction to members of my own sex. I had long pretended my relations with the Irishman were the result of youthful confusion, or of the Irishman’s irresistible force of mind. But that was never the entire truth. I may have been compelled the first time, but thereafter I did what I did with him because I wished to. In fact, I had desired it even before he had ensnared me in his power. Even when I didn’t know the name for those forbidden desires, I had them. Even when I was making love to many women and enjoying those carnal pleasures, I still could not rid myself of thoughts of men.

That has been the secret I vowed to take to the grave. I am one of those men who are rightly shunned by all decent society. I am a sinner, an invert, and a sodomite – and there is nothing I can do about it.

And now it will likely ruin the only friendship I value in the world, separate me from the only living person I care anything for. The only person since my mother died for whom I have ever felt... love.

For years I thanked God that Holmes was an automaton. He seemed from the beginning to be one untouched by common emotion. On occasion I would witness a crack in his steely composure, but those cracks always mended quickly. Holmes was a man who did not need another human soul in order to be complete, but was entirely sovereign in body and mind. I admired such supreme control and strove to be like him.

Then that woman came into our lives. And I say ‘our’ because her insidious presence affected both of us, especially when I became aware that she and Holmes were... physically intimate.

Intimate! He and that insufferable trollop! I can barely think on it without screaming!

At first I was incredulous. Holmes had never shown a romantic interest in any living creature, let alone such a blatantly manipulative female as Irene Adler. But he was like a stupefied boy, unable to understand the meaning of his burgeoning puberty. In a word, she led Holmes around by his cock and he followed willingly. 

And I was forced to observe this. I was alarmed. I was disgusted. I was disillusioned.

And I was jealous. Acutely, lividly, and overpoweringly jealous.

That’s when I realized my affections for my friend were not normal. But by then it was too late. I was too deeply enmeshed in Holmes’ life and he in mine to withdraw. And I had no desire to withdraw. So I waited it out. I knew a woman like Adler would soon tire of her game. She was a self-proclaimed adventuress and professional mistress – Sherlock Holmes, as fascinating as he might be, was not wealthy enough, famous enough, or influential enough to be the defining romance of her life. She had larger prey in her sight. And when she moved on, as was inevitable, Holmes swiftly recovered and blithely continued on as before.

If only I has been able to do the same.

Our relationship was just as strong, just as companionable, as it had ever been, but with a marked difference. My feelings for him were no longer as for a friend, but for a lover.

A forever unrequited lover.

I can live with that. I long ago vowed to live with it. But now that he knows for certain the truth about what I did with Mick Wiggins, things cannot continue in the status quo.

I composed myself and went out to face my friend.

But the sitting room was empty. Only his empty coffee cup sat abandoned on the table next to the sofa.

“Oh, Dr. Watson,” said Mrs. Hudson, coming in to take away the tray. “You’re up already! I’ll go and get your breakfast. Mr. Holmes was up very early. He said he had much business to take care of this morning.”

Business. Wiggins and Dilly and murder and blackmail, among others. “Did Mr. Holmes leave a message for me before he left?”

Mrs Hudson frowned. “A message?”

“Any word for me?” I was grasping at straws. “Something? Anything?” 

“No, Doctor. Mr. Holmes had his coffee and went out directly. I had a nice dish of curried chicken all ready for his breakfast, but he turned it down. And you know how he loves his curried chicken.”

“Yes, I know.” That was a habit he had picked up from me. I learned to like a good curry when I was in India and passed that love on to my partner.

“Would you like the chicken, Doctor?” she asked. “I can warm it and have the girl bring it with your tea.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not very hungry this morning.”

“Are you not sleeping well again?” Her kindly face was full of empathy.

“Not very,” I admitted. 

“I’ll bring you some chamomile tea before bedtime this evening,” she offered. “It will help you rest.”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said, picking up ‘The Times.’ It was already open to an inner page and the story of a shocking arrest in Soho. “Mrs. Hudson, I must tell you something.”

“Yes?” She paused in the midst of picking up Holmes’ cup.

“I might be... be leaving these rooms soon.”

“Leaving?” she said sharply. “Whatever do you mean, leaving?”

“I might be moving to other lodgings.” Just saying the words tore my heart.

“You and Mr. Holmes – leaving? This is the first I’ve heard of it!”

“Not Mr. Holmes. He doesn’t know yet. It is I who may be moving to other accommodations.”

Mrs. Hudson set the cup back down and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, no you don’t, Doctor! You’re not leaving this house and having Mr. Holmes stay behind to be-devil me! You’re the only person who can handle him, because Lord knows I can’t do it! What has gotten into you, Dr. Watson?”

“It’s a long story, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, feeling the full weight of my guilt. This would affect not only Holmes and myself, but the entire household. “But I believe the time has come for me to make my own way in the world – without Mr. Holmes.”

The woman glared at me, her eyes blazing with a fury I didn’t know she was capable of. “And leave me to deal with Mr. Holmes? With his rages and his chemical concoctions and his shooting up the wall at all hours of the day and night? And the drugs that he takes! You think we all don’t know about that? The maids are afraid to come in here when you’re not at home, Doctor, and that’s the truth. Sometimes I think Mr. Holmes is... is truly crazy! And I mean that! If you leave this house, then I won’t be responsible for him! I don’t care how much extra he pays me! It’s not worth it!”

That caught me up short. “What do you mean, the extra he pays you?”

Mrs. Hudson flushed a bright red. “Oh, dear! I was never supposed to say.”

“Please tell me,” I urged. “I am sick of secrets.”

“The amount you pay for your share of the lodgings...” She winced in chagrin. “It’s only half of what Mr. Holmes pays. I have been compelled to raise the rent a number of times over the years due to growing expenses, but he told me not to say anything since your Army pension was so fixed. He’s been making up the difference. I’m so sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to tell you!”

I put my hand to my head in dismay. “I see. Thank you for informing me, Mrs. Hudson. I was unaware that I was Holmes’ favorite charity.”

“Don’t think that way, Doctor,” she returned. “The truth is that when Mr. Holmes first wanted to lodge here, I turned him down flat. I asked for three references and he gave them to me, including the landlady of his previous set of rooms. They all told me to avoid him like the plague! They said that although he looked like a gentleman, he was loud, rude, dirty, and had habits that would drive the entire household to distraction. But when he brought you around and I saw what a fine and distinguished gentleman you were, I changed my mind. I decided that if a man like you could call Mr. Sherlock Holmes his friend, then I would take a chance on him as a lodger. But if you’re leaving – well! I don’t think I can take it! If you go, then he’ll have to go as well!”

Mrs. Hudson flounced out of the room in such a state that she forgot to take Holmes’ coffee cup. 

I picked it up off the table and turned it in my hand. It was an ordinary china cup with a blue willow pattern. A cup like any other. Holmes drank his morning brew out of it every day and had done so ever since the first morning we began living here together.

I closed my eyes and threw it forcefully into the fireplace, where it smashed into sharp white and blue fragments.

Broken. Everything now was broken.

And I, most of all.


	25. “A Suggestion in a Turkish Bath”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has a lot to think about.

My two patients were spot on time: Mrs. Campbell, a no-nonsense Scotswoman with a goiter, and Mrs. Ralston, the recently married lady with a new complaint of nausea in the morning. For the former I prescribed regular doses of iodine, and for the latter plenty of rest, bland food, and the expectation of an heir in about six month’s time. Mrs. Campbell promptly paid her bill and went off to procure the iodine, while Mrs. Ralston burst into copious tears. Women often do that on being told they are expectant. The first time it happened I thought the woman was upset at the idea of pregnancy, but I soon learned that females cry with happiness almost as often as they cry with sorrow or pain. 

Mrs. Ralston thanked me profusely and then thanked me again. I wanted to say, “Madam, do not thank me – I had little to do with this happy event, thank God!” but I refrained. Women do not understand humor; they are literal creatures to the extreme. 

Just as Mrs. Hudson was bringing in Elevenses, an unexpected patient came to the door. His name was Captain Phillips and he was sent to me by Stamford, whose patient he had been for the past year. But now that Stamford had removed to Chelsea with his new bride, it was too far for the old gentleman to make his accustomed weekly visit. As he lived in Montague Place, Stamford immediately thought of me here in Baker Street. While I appreciated the recommendation, I would be lying to say it did not irk me somewhat to be getting cast-off patients from a man who was once my junior assistant.

Captain Phillips was an easy patient, a bluff old retired soldier whose main disorder was an elevated blood pressure. He also seemed a lonely fellow. A widower, he lived with his daughter and son-in-law, and spent most of his time at his club. Mrs. Hudson brought in tea and I offered him a cup, which he gladly accepted. We had a nice chat about India and the state of the empire and he was surprised to hear that I’d been at Maiwand.

“A rum business, that,” he said. “But you can’t say those Ghazi devils aren’t fighters.”

“No, that they certainly are.” My hand automatically went to my shoulder, feeling for where the Jazail bullet had entered and changed my life utterly. “But I suppose I’d fight like the very devil if my home was invaded by strange heathens in bizarre garb, speaking gibberish and bent on ruling over me.”

“Never looked at it that way,” the captain admitted. “But you can’t count savages the same as good, honest Englishmen, can you?”

I finished my tea while my patient rattled on. I knew Captain Phillips would never see that the real danger to the British Empire wasn’t in pursuing half-wild tribesmen into punishing mountains, but was here, on the squalid streets of London, with the poor and the sick, the desperate and the unscrupulous.

I gave the captain some pills and told him to eat and drink in moderation and limit his salt intake. I knew he wouldn’t he do any of those things, of course, but at least he might take the pills – when he remembered.

As the morning turned into afternoon, I waited for Holmes, but by two o’clock he had not returned to Baker Street. There was so much I wanted to say to him, but I had no idea how to say it, or how he would receive my confessions. I began to pace, my nerves getting the better of me. But my body, and especially my leg, was stiff with the tensions of the past few days. I was also exhausted, my sleep being sorely troubled. I needed something to temper my aches and take my mind off my worries. So, with no further patients anticipated and no word from my compatriot, I put on my topcoat, walked out of 221b, and hailed a cab to take me to the Turkish Bath on Northumberland Street.

Holmes and I had been patronizing this establishment for years, but I had never been there on my own. I was greeted at the door by the manager, Mr. Ozmet, and directed to the changing room. One of the regular attendants, Ivan, took my clothes and presented me with a large white Turkish towel, which I wrapped around myself.

“You are solo today, Doctor, sir?” he asked. Ivan was a stocky Russian with a shaved head. Except for the manager, who appeared genuinely Turkish, all the attendants were Russians.

“Yes, my friend Mr. Holmes has business elsewhere.”

I followed Ivan to the warming room, where I sat as he banked up the steam. I began to perspire freely and could feel my muscles loosen and the tension drain from my body.

“You like hotter, Doctor, sir?” asked the Russian.

“No, thank you. This is quite sufficient.” I closed my eyes and could not help but remember my first days in India. The heat in that June was stifling to a man who had known chiefly the cool dampness of the British Isles. Although I was heading into a war, I was glad to leave the steam of Bombay for the cool highlands of Afghanistan. Alas, I did not enjoy my sojourn there for long. The next few months after I was wounded are a blur of heat, pain, and misery. I remember sweltering in my bed, the only relief the movement of the orderlies as they lifted the netting to see if I were still alive.

“You sweat enough?” Ivan spread a clean cloth on the marble slab. “I scrub you now?”

“Yes, I’m ready.” I stood while the Russian drenched me with cool water and then energetically washed me with his soap and brushes. As usual, I felt quite invigorated by his treatment. Then I lay prone upon the slab, a rolled towel under my chin, as Ivan worked his sorcery on my shoulders, back, and legs. He knew me well and was careful of my left shoulder; although my wound had long since healed, he knew I was still mindful of it and sensitive to any touch.

It was quiet in the baths that afternoon – I seemed to be the only patron. The place was much busier in the morning, when men came before going to their offices in nearby Whitehall, and then again in the evening, when they came for a relaxing steam before repairing to their clubs in St. James.

“You turn now,” the Russian directed. “Please, Doctor, sir?”

I rolled over onto my back. Ivan’s strong fingers flexed my legs, focusing especially on my right, with its damaged tendo Achillis. I flinched slightly, but then relaxed. A firm rub after heat always helped and Ivan knew the exact amount of pressure that was needed. I sighed at the remedy it brought, and my entire being was flooded with a tranquility I had not felt in an age.

He worked his way up the front of my thighs and then paused. I could hear his heavy breathing against the background of dripping water and the muffled din of Trafalgar Square beyond the thick walls.

“You come solo this time, Doctor, sir,” he remarked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, so I said before.”

“You and friend always together here. Rest in cubicle after massage.”

“Yes.” I could not imagine what the fellow was on about. “That we do.”

“Friend not here now,” said Ivan. “You want that Ivan should give relief? Only 3 bob extra for good customer.”

Relief? I sat up in disbelief. “What are you saying, man?”

The burly Russian shrugged. Then his hand was on my prick. “Friend not here, Doctor, sir. But Ivan can take care of you. Ivan take care of many gentleman who come without friend. Ivan the best here. Ask Mr. Ozmet. He will tell you.”

“You mean that...?” 

But it was already happening. Ivan’s hand was stroking my cockstand. His touch was deliberate, but also gentle. Just as he seemed to know instinctively how to relieve my shoulder and my leg, he also knew exactly what my manhood required. Ivan was not a partner in this act, as the enthusiastic and inventive Mick Wiggins had been, but merely an attendant to it. With only a few minutes concentrated indulgence, he brought me to a lusty fruition.

“You will feel much better now, Doctor, sir,” said Ivan, wiping me off as he would a helpless babe. “Is good thing for man to spend. Good for body, good for head. You are sad – I feel this. Maybe you and friend have fight, now not so friendly. But you will be happy again. I know this.” He covered me with the Turkish towel. “Close eyes. Rest now.”

He left me in the dim room, my mind swirling with emotions. But to what avail? I had now given in twice to the urges I had suppressed for so long. But I found I was not sorry. My body craved periodic emissions in the same way it demanded to perform other vital functions. So I took the Russian’s sage advice, shut my eyes, and rested. Then I slept. Not for long, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, but I woke improved, as if I had slept a long and dreamless sleep. Ivan’s special treatment was precisely what I had needed.

I dressed and walked out into the late afternoon sun.

Sherlock Holmes was standing there, waiting for me. He was leaning against a lamppost, smoking his pipe thoughtfully.

“I say, my boy, I was about to go in there and get you. You took your own good time about it.” Holmes tapped his pipe against the post, knocking out the ashes.

I stared at him, my face flushing. “If you knew I was in there, then why the devil didn’t you come in?”

He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “I don’t know. I... I wasn’t sure you wanted my company.”

“The more fool you, then!” I huffed. And I began walking away, towards Trafalgar where I might find a cab.

But I was intercepted. “Come, Watson!” said Holmes, seizing my arm. “There’s no time for this tomfoolery. We have important business to attend to. Life and death business.”

“You mean the Griffith case? And the murder of William Fisher?”

“Yes, yes,” he said as we moved briskly down the pavement. “I want you to come with me to the gaol. They won’t let me see either Wiggins or Dilly Mitchell, but they will let in a doctor.”

“I knew I would come in handy to you one day,” I said coldly.

Holmes stopped and looked at me strangely, his dark hazel eyes glittering. “You have no idea, my dear fellow. No idea whatsoever.”

And with that Sherlock Holmes and I continued up the Strand and into the City to the courts and gaols of the Old Bailey.


	26. “An Examination in a Dark Cell”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson visit Mick and Dilly.

There is something about a place of incarceration that saps the spirit of all hope, even when one is only a visitor. The very air carries with it the stink of hopelessness and despair. I have entered gaols and prisons many times in my life, always at Holmes’ side in connection with one of his cases, but I have never gotten used to it and I doubt I ever shall.

“Mr. Holmes,” the warder, Mr. Collins, greeted my friend. “Back again so soon? You must like it here.” He was a whip-spare man with a gallows sense of humor, if that is not inappropriate to say in such a circumstance. “Perhaps you and the good doctor would like to move in – permanently?”

“Not as yet, Collins,” Holmes said evenly. Although he had worked closely with the Law for over a decade, his dislike of policemen was well-known among them. “I am here to see my clients, Mr. Michael Wiggins and Mr. David Mitchell.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you have already been told that’s impossible,” said the warder. “You aren’t their lawyer, unless you were called to the bar between this morning and now, and you aren’t a member of Scotland Yard, so what gives you the right to question prisoners accused of a capital offense?”

“I have engaged an attorney for the boys,” said Holmes, imperiously. “Mr. Humbolt Savage, barrister. He, along with their solicitor, Mr. Leland Grooms, will be seeing them tomorrow. In their absence, I am to be their representative. I have brought Dr. Watson, who is known to you as a first-rate physician, to examine them and ascertain the state of their health. I believe Mr. Mitchell is ill.”

“If you mean that little Mary Ann, then, yes,” said the warder. “He’s doing very poorly.”

“Then let me in, for pity’s sake,” I interjected. “Perhaps I can alleviate the poor wretch’s suffering.”

“I suppose it won’t do any harm,” Collins said grudgingly. He was not a hard man, but dealing with criminals every day had jaded him. But unlike some in positions of power, he seemed to have no wish to inflict undue hardship on the prisoners under his sway. “You may visit Wiggins and Mitchell.”

“And Mr. Holmes, as well,” I said quickly. “He will assist me.”

“If you must,” Collins grumbled sourly. “Follow me.”

Mick and Dilly had not yet come before the magistrate to be charged, so they were in dark, tiny holding cells separated from the general mob of the accused. Because their crime was murder, the pair had been placed apart and solitary, unable to communicate with each other or anyone but their gaolers. Not that Dilly Mitchell was likely to communicate much information to anyone. I found her – him – lying in the straw like a beast in a stable. I knelt beside him, feeling his pulse, which was weak and erratic.

Dilly Mitchell opened his large eyes. They were a startling shade of cornflower blue, just as Charles Griffith had said. “Have you come to take me to the hangman, sir? I’m so afraid!”

“No, Dilly,” I said gently. “I’m a doctor. How do you feel?”

“Ever so light-headed,” he said. He touched his long yellow hair, which was tangled with filthy straw. “I must look a fright.”

“Don’t worry yourself about that, my dear.” I took the creature’s small hand in mine. His skin was clammy, but he also had a feverish aspect. “We will get you out of here as soon as we can.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, his voice dry and faded. “You are ever so kind. But I feel so poorly.”

I did a cursory examination and then stood, anger overwhelming me. “This person should be in a hospital, not a gaol!”

“Begging your pardon, Dr. Watson,” said Collins. “But orders from Inspector Lestrade say both prisoners are to be kept here, on close watch.”

“Lestrade is still crowing over his catch,” commented Holmes. “He’s afraid his pigeons will fly if they get too close to a window.”

“This pigeon is unlikely to fly very far,” I returned, leaning close to Holmes. “It’s as I feared. Galloping consumption, I would say. Dilly needs to be seen by a specialist to confirm the diagnosis. And she – he – needs treatment – immediately.”

Holmes shook his head. “Lestrade will never allow it, as you well know. It has nothing to do with Dilly Mitchell, but with the prestige of Scotland Yard, especially now that the newspapers have gotten wind of this sensational and tawdry crime. I saw Lestrade this morning and he’s so puffed up with himself there was barely room enough in the building for him, his ego, and anyone else.”

“Someone whose egotism has disconcerted you, Holmes?” I raised an eyebrow. “Shocking!”

“I know,” he replied without irony. Then he turned to Collins. “When are Wiggins and Mitchell to be arraigned?”

“Don’t know, Mr. Holmes,” the warder confessed. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. There’s a lot of prisoners waiting for a hearing.”

Holmes took out his pipe and lit it, as he always does when peeved. “Is there a way to mitigate this situation, Collins? A bribe, perhaps, to get poor Mitchell some decent care?”

“Always the jokester, Mr. Holmes,” Collins chortled. “You know I would never take a bribe.”

Holmes reached into his pocket and took out a crisp five pound note. “Then think of this as payment for medicine for Dilly and adequate food for both prisoners.” He slipped the note into the warder’s jacket pocket. “Plus a pint or two for yourself.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Holmes,” said Collins, lowering his voice.

“We’d like to see Mr. Wiggins now.”

Collins nodded. “This way.”

Mick Wiggins looked weary and soiled, but compared to the pathetic Dilly he was as on holiday. He leaped up and broke into a broad grin when he saw us. “Doctor! And the Guv! You gents look a rare treat. I knew you’d come to spring me!”

“Settle down, Wiggins!” the warder snapped. “Don’t you be cheeky with your betters.”

“You may withdraw, Mr. Collins,” said Holmes. “Neither I nor the good doctor is smuggling a shovel with which Mr. Wiggins might dig his way out.”

“I suppose it’ll be all right,” the warder said, looking cautiously at Holmes. He unlocked the iron door and let us in, locking it behind us. “Ten minutes and no more.”

“Make yourselves at home in my parlour, gents,” said Mick, sweeping his arm to indicate the cramped cell. “Shall I order tea and crumpets? Sorry I don’t got a bench for you to rest your laurels upon, but I got plenty o’ straw you can sit on. And if you feel the need to relieve yourselves, the bucket is in the corner.”

“Good lord, Mick!” I said. “How can you joke about this grave situation?”

His cheery smile faded. “’Cause it is grave, Doctor. Can’t do anything but make a joke of it. But the last laugh’ll be on me and Dilly. They got us dead to rights, Guv’nor. We was in the room with the stiff when the coppers come in and me with blood all over me hands.” The boy stretched out his fingers and inspected them. “Dead to rights. And dead for certain soon enough.” That’s when his composure crumbled utterly and he began to sob like a child.

“Don’t cry, my lad,” I said, taking him into my arms and patting him. “Holmes will not fail you. You were one of the Irregulars. You know the worth of his methods. Think of all the cases he’s solved and all the miscreants he’s brought to justice.”

“I’m trying to keep me pecker up, Doctor,” Mick sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “But it’s a hard patch in here. I was born in the Workhouse, but I ain’t never been in stir before. I always tried to walk the straight and narrow – well, as far as I could.”

“So I believed,” said Holmes, a sharp edge to his tone. “Now you must tell me the truth, Wiggins. I got you a position at the telegraph office in Oxford Street. It pays you a decent wage, plus good tips. How did you get mixed up with William Fisher and Dilly Mitchell and this whole sorry lot?”

Mick looked abashed. “I’ve known Dilly since we was kids on the street. She was a tiny thing and couldn’t defend herself, so I protected her and saw she got fed and had a safe place to sleep. You look out for each other when you’re living rough, know what I mean? She was one of the Irregulars for a while. Don’t you remember, Guv?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I remember. But then Dilly disappeared.”

“Yeah,” Mick shrugged. “When she got old enough she went on the game. It’s the only way for somebody like Dilly to make money, Guv. She can’t work at no real job. Who’d hire her?”

“Who, indeed?” Holmes sighed. “But that doesn’t explain why you began prostituting yourself as well.”

Mick winced at the word – as did I. It was difficult to think of Mick Wiggins as a whore, even if that’s what he was.

“I didn’t mean to, Guv,” he explained. “But there was a chap at the telegraph office, Lewis Pratt. He was always wearing flash gear and bragging about the places he went to and how he mingled with all the toffs. He took me to public houses like the Salisbury and the Crown where kindly gentlemen go to meet agreeable boys. It was easy money and I always been ever so agreeable. I like gents and the gents like me.” 

Mick looked up at me and grinned wickedly, which flustered me greatly. I turned my head and saw that Holmes was also staring at me with a gimlet eye. 

“Quite,” I said.

“Then Lewis took me and Dilly to the Red Cockerel in Holborn,” Mick continued. “That’s when we found out he had another side to him altogether. Lewis was entertaining in this pub, in the back room, wearing ladies’ clothing and calling himself Lady Lee. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him, Guv! He looked like Lillie Langtry, all in feathers and lace. He said he could get Dilly a job there, that she was a natural. And she was. Took to the stage like a duck to water. Didn’t know she could sing so sweetly and look so pretty. And she met a lot of nice gentlemen there, too.”

Holmes glowered. “Gentlemen like Charles Griffith?”

Mick writhed like a fish on a hook. “Yeah, he was one. The last one. Dilly said they was in love. Said they was going off together to America and live like husband and wife. I told Dilly she was bloody balmy! No toff is gonna take some Mary Ann across the ocean, especially when she’s sickly, like.”

“How long has Dilly been ill?” I asked.

“A long time, Doctor,” Mick admitted. “She always was frail, but she got worse lately. She lost her voice and couldn’t sing no more. That’s when Bill Fisher said we should turn the screws on old Charlie Griffith and get money off him. Because we all knew Dilly was going down and she’d need money for medicine if she didn’t want to end up in the Workhouse.”

“So, Wiggins,” said Holmes. “You are telling me that you and Dilly only turned to blackmail because of the extremity of her illness?”

“I swear on the life of me own mother, Guv!” Mick avowed.

“A fruitless oath, since you never knew that unfortunate lady,” Holmes retorted. “Now when are you going to tell me the entire truth?”

“I did!” Mick whined. Then he turned to me, his dark eyes tearful. “Don’t let him browbeat me, Doctor. I’m telling you everything!”

“I think not,” said Holmes. “Because you and Dilly Mitchell and William Fisher have been in the blackmail business for quite some time, even before Dilly became mixed up with Charles Griffith. And what about the boy brothel on Cleveland Street, where you have been working regularly for over two years? When were you going to mention that nasty business?”

“I don’t know, Guv.” Mick Wiggins sank down in the straw and held his head in his hands. “I can’t talk about any of that. I can’t! He’ll have me killed like he had Bill killed! And he hates anybody who peaches. He can have me gutted any time he wants, even in this prison. He can get to anybody, anywhere!”

“Who?” Holmes thundered. “Who are you so afraid of, Wiggins?”

“Him,” Mick whispered. “Him what runs everything evil in this city. The big Boss.”

“Does he have a name, this man?” I inquired, more gently. It was obvious that Mick was terrified of the consequences of crossing this sinister blackguard.

“I don’t know his name,” said the boy, trembling with real fear. “I don’t think he has one. Not a real one, anyways. But when they call him anything at all, they call him the Professor.”


	27. “A Box of a Particular Size”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Dr. Watson carry out a request.

 

Holmes recoiled violently at Mick Wiggins’ words. “The Professor? This is what I most feared. Curse the bastard!”

A sensation of dread raced through me, but I didn’t speak. Perhaps it was only a coincidence. There were many professors in England. Many. There was nothing to connect the Irishman with this man of whom Mick Wiggins was so petrified.

“No, Guv!” Mick pleaded. “Don’t even speak of him! Please?”

“I must get to the bottom of this if I am to save you and Dilly,” Holmes said urgently. “Tell me, Wiggins – who else might want William Fisher dead?”

Mick frowned. “Just about everybody, Guv’nor. Bill owed money to every bookmaker in town, as well as being in arrears at a score of pubs that was stupid enough to advance him credit. That’s why he was so hard on Charlie Griffith – Bill knew there was lots of money there. But even with the other gents we put the finger on, Bill always took the lion’s share, while me and Dilly got the leavings.”

“So why did you partner up with this man in the first place?” Holmes said sternly.

“It... it just happened,” said Mick, avoiding Holmes’ gaze. “Don’t ask me anymore! ’Cause I can’t say!”

Holmes put his face right up next to Mick’s. “Listen to me, you foolish boy. I’m trying to save you from the gallows. But you must be honest with me. You must tell me everything!”

“Time’s up, gentlemen!” said Collins, standing at the door of the cell.

“Damn it all!” Holmes muttered under his breath. “Come, Watson. We must depart.”

“Don’t forget, Doctor,” said Mick, tugging at my sleeve. “My cat, Moggy. You promised you’d look after her.”

“Of course, Mick,” I replied.

“They took my key, along with my money and my comb, when I come in here,” Mick said, glaring at Collins.

“Never fear, Wiggins,” Holmes declared. “There’s not a door in London I can’t open – if I wish to.” He smiled slyly at Collins. “Including any door in this gaol.”

“It’s time for you to go, sir,” said Collins, unamused.

Minutes later Holmes and I were standing on the pavement, the grim walls of the prison looming behind us.

“Holmes, tell me you aren’t seriously considering breaking Mick and Dilly out of gaol.” I touched my friend’s shoulder.

“No,” Holmes replied. “I would only stoop to such illicit measures if all else had failed and their lives were truly in danger. We must endeavour to free them lawfully and clear their names. That is the way Justice prevails.” He paused and pulled out his pipe. “Although if I wanted to break them out, I could do it in a heartbeat.”

“Lestrade has always suggested you had a bit of the criminal in your make-up,” I teased.

“And so I do,” Holmes confirmed. “But so does every man. Including doctors, who, as you are well aware, make the most devious and dangerous murderers. I have always thought that the Whitechapel Ripper must be a surgeon. Or a skilled butcher, which is practically the same thing. The same skills are required to disembowel those lamentable females as to heal them, although I must admire the swiftness and precision of the fellow’s handiwork compared to most physicians of my acquaintance.”

“Please, Holmes!” I cried, feeling sick to my stomach. “Enough!”

“Sorry, Watson,” he bowed. “I will defer to the delicacy of your sensibilities.”

“Yes, my so-called sensibilities have been assaulted,” I stated. “But seeing those two boys behind bars is far more upsetting to me. Dilly Mitchell is certainly dying – and without treatment I doubt he will live to see his own trial. And Mick Wiggins...” I paused. “Even his irrepressible spirit is being beaten down by his incarceration.”

“And yet he has broken the law,” Holmes pointed out.

“So have we all,” I returned. “We are all sinners. It is all about the degree of our transgressions. But punishment always falls most heavily on the weak, the poor, and the powerless.”

“Why, Watson, you sound like a Socialist,” Holmes laughed. “Or a lapsed Catholic rethinking his beliefs.”

“I am not rethinking anything. I am only concerned for the fates of those two poor souls.”

“Dilly Mitchell, I fear, is a lost cause, but Wiggins – Ah! I had great hopes for that lad,” Holmes said regretfully. “I had never thought to see him on the wrong end of the hangman’s noose.”

Holmes’ words made me shudder. “Will it come to that?”

“Not while I have breath in my body,” Holmes said. “I still have a trick or two up my sleeves, Watson. But first, we must repair to Covent Garden.” He linked his arm with mine as we walked on, in search of a hansom.

“Covent Garden?” I blinked. “Are you in need a some fresh vegetables? Or flowers for Mrs. Hudson?”

“Bah!” Holmes said, hailing a cab. “We are in search of a box of a particular size.”

“A box?” I was at a loss.

“In which to place Wiggins’ cat. Unless you expect to carry it through the streets of London in your arms, which is not terribly feasible considering the contrary personalities of most felines.”

“Quite right,” I agreed, as we stepped into the cab and moments later were trotting westward.

***

Having procured the requisite box from a seller of onions and leeks at the vegetable market, we proceeded to Mick Wiggins’ lodgings in an alley off Charing Cross.

I hesitated at the main entry, but at Holmes’ urging I plunged inside and up the narrow stairs to the first floor. “This is the room.”

Holmes took out his ring of lock-picks. “This should be simple enough. I imagine a firm kick would do just as well.” But he chose an implement and fiddled with the lock for less than a minute before the door swung open.

“’ere! What are you gents up to?” A stout man in a soiled undershirt and a battered derby hat came down the dark hallway. “Who the ’ell are you?”

Holmes stared at the fellow with an appraising eye. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my intimate friend, Dr. Watson. We are here to collect a few belongings of a friend of ours, Mr. Michael Wiggins, who is... um... going to be away for a short while.”

The man shook his head. “Mick in the Bridewell?”

“He is incarcerated, yes,” Holmes confirmed. “He and his friend, Mr. Mitchell. But we hope they will soon be released.”

“I knew them two would come to no good,” the man snorted. “On the game, the both o’ them! I’m the landlord ’ere. You a copper?”

“No,” said Homes, walking into Mick’s room and glancing around. “I am most unquestionably not a copper. I am a concerned patron of Mr. Wiggins.”

“Oh.” The landlord turned up his nose. “One o’ them blokes. Well, it’s none o’ my business. But if they don’t pay what they owes me for their lodgings, I’ll toss all their muck out into the street!”

“Here.” Holmes took out a handful of coins. “This should be enough to secure both Mr. Wiggins’ and Mr. Mitchell’s rooms. And if anyone else comes looking for them, would you send word to me at 221b Baker Street? I’ll make it worth something to you.”

The man pocketed the money and tipped his hat. “I’ll do that, sir. Baker Street. I’ll remember.”

“See that you do.” Holmes hustled the man out into the hall and shut the door. “He may be of some use. If anyone comes to search their rooms, he’s sure to be right there to hinder them.”

I set down the box and walked to the small window, which looked out on the yard and another building. “Not a very cheerful view.”

“Better than the view Wiggins is currently enjoying,” Holmes remarked. “I see no cat.”

“I doubt she would come out and greet two total strangers. Mick said she was shy. Here, Moggy!” I called. “Here, puss!”

“Perhaps under the bed?” Holmes suggested.

“Perhaps.” I got onto my hands and knees and peered underneath. It was dark and dusty, but there was no cat to be seen.

“Here is a bowl of water,” said Holmes. “Empty. I imagine the creature must be thirsty and hungry by now.”

“We have nothing to tempt her out of hiding!” I said in exasperation. “This room is barely bigger than a closet. Where can a cat conceal itself in such a place?”

Holmes’s keen eyes raked the room. “That cupboard.” He pointed to a small door in the wall, which was slightly ajar. “He nudged it open and reached inside. “Damn it!” He cried and quickly withdrew his hand. “We have found Wiggins’ pet, Watson.”

I examined Holmes’ hand. A barely distinct line of red was visible on his middle finger. “A mere scratch.”

“What if the animal is rabid?” He squinted at the wound.

“I think you’ll survive,” I replied. “Now we must get the cat into the box. Perhaps if we wrap her up first? Otherwise she’ll claw the deuce out of the both of us.”

Holmes went to the bed and pulled back the bedclothes. “No sheets.”

“What about a towel?” I suggested.

Holmes found a folded towel on the shelf above the cupboard. I took it and carefully opened the small door. “Here, Moggy. Good pussycat.”

The frightened beast hissed piteously as I reached into the depths and threw the towel over her. That’s when the cat really began to yowl and flail. 

“Quick, Holmes! The box!”

I pulled the creature from her lair and deposited her in the box. Holmes set the top and secured it with twine from a ball we bought at the market. The cat meowed loudly, but I was satisfied that no harm had been done to her.

“There!” I said with satisfaction.

“And what about when we get back to Baker Street?” Holmes queried. “Then what will we do with it?”

I hadn’t thought much beyond finding the cat. “I will fulfill my promise to Wiggins to look after her. The animal is obviously important to him.”

“We’ll see what Mrs. Hudson has to say about that,” said Holmes, his eyes bright with amusement. “Not to mention what Gladstone will think.”

“Quite,” I replied. Now that the cat was captured I took a few moments to observe the room. It seemed woefully empty without Mick’s optimistic presence, even more so when I thought of where he currently resided.

“He’s a reader,” observed Holmes, indicating a stack of magazines on the bedside table. “‘The Police Gazette.’ ‘Blackwood’s.’ Even ‘The Strand.’” He picked up the topmost. “I believe this is the issue with your last story in it: ‘The Adventure of the Rajah’s Tomb.’”

I felt my face go hot. “My feeble attempt to write a story of mystery and romance. I was paid almost £2 for its publication.”

Holmes perused the periodical. “I have told you, my dear boy, that the solving of crime and romance are completely at odds! One is the result of logic, deduction, and sheer brainwork, while the other is a chimera of sentiment and ridiculous emotion!”

I well knew Holmes’ opinion of my literary efforts. “So I’ve heard. More than once.”

“But Young Wiggins obviously found it of interest,” Holmes remarked. “It’s well-thumbed. See the imprints of his fingers here, and the magazine opens to this page – he’s folded it back more than once. I believe you have an admirer, Watson – a fan, as they would say in the boxing fancy.”

There it was. The great unspoken. “I like Mick, too,” I said defiantly.

Holmes’ face changed. I can’t explain what I read there. Dismay? Anger? Disgust? I could not tell precisely, but it was something unsettling.

He turned away from me. “Your personal life is your own affair, my dear fellow. I make no judgments upon your actions.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“Believe what you will.” Holmes opened the door of the room. “It’s getting late. Take the box with your new pet and let us leave this oppressive place.”

“Yes,” I said. “Let us leave.” 

But what was still unsaid was hanging in the air between us like a poisonous smoke, and I had reason to fear that now it would never be dispelled.


	28. “A New Complication”

“Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! I must speak with you!”

Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the entrance of 221b when Holmes and I came in with the box full of cat.

“Good evening, Mrs. H.,” said Holmes. “Lovely weather, what? Here is a present for you. Watson, give her the box.”

“What is this?” she said in a fluster.

“Now, see here, Holmes,” I said, still clutching the box. “We can’t simply pass off Wiggins’ cat on Mrs. Hudson.”

“A cat!” she cried.

“Why not?” said Holmes. “I’m sure it’s a first rate mouser and will come in handy in the kitchen.”

“Mr. Holmes! My kitchen does not have mice!” Mrs. Hudson protested.

“See? It’s working already.” Holmes proceeded up to the first floor and into our chamber, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson turned to me in appeal. “Doctor, is there really a cat in that box?”

“Er... yes,” I confessed. “I promised to care for it for a friend who is... away.”

At that point Moggy, who had ceased her wails somewhere between Oxford Street and Lower Baker Street, began caterwauling once again.

“Doctor, what am I to do with a cat?” said Mrs. Hudson in alarm.

“She will be no trouble at all. Some scraps of meat and a bowl of milk should suffice to keep her in trim.” A small, white-mitted paw poked out from between the slats of the box and began batting at the air. 

“But what about the dog?” Mrs. Hudson gaped at the box and the paw in dismay. 

“I’m sure it will simply be a matter of keeping them apart until they become used to each other. Gladstone sleeps in my room and Moggy will reside in the kitchen. It will be fine,” I affirmed.

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Have you ever heard ‘fight like cats and dogs,’ Doctor? Because it isn’t just a saying, you know.”

“We will all do our best. It’s only until Mick gets out of... I mean, until Mr. Wiggins returns.”

“Mick Wiggins?” She rolled her eyes. “That scamp! Is he involved in this? Is he in gaol?”

“Yes, my dear lady, and I know you will do what you can to aid us in his case. And that means seeing to the comfort of his beloved pet.” Another yowl issued from the box. “I will carry her downstairs.”

“This is all I need!” sighed Mrs. Hudson. “I will carry the box.” She took it in her arms. “You had better go up to your rooms. You have a visitor and I expect you and Mr. Holmes to deal with him.”

“A visitor? We were expecting no one.”

“And neither was I,” Mrs. Hudson returned tartly. “But I have one. And so do you. I will bring up your tea as soon as I’ve gotten this visitor settled in the kitchen.”

I left Mrs. Hudson to deal with the cat, while I sped up the stairs, unable to imagine who was waiting in the sitting room.

I opened the door and found Holmes pacing back and forth, his pipe belching smoke like a steam engine. And sitting in the chair he usually reserved for clients, was James, the footman from Sherringford Hall.

“Doctor Watson!” the young man cried. “I wager you’re surprised to see my face.”

“I’ll take that wager.” Holmes paused at his pacing, his teeth gripping the stem of his pipe.

Surprised wasn’t the word. “James, what the deuce are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to seek my fortune in London.” He pointed to a small cloth sack at his feet. “I’ve got all my gear and a little money saved up. I walked most of the way, but then a gentleman gave me a ride in his trap into the city and, after asking a few kindly souls, I found my way right to your door. London isn’t half a confusing place. And all the people! It makes my brain spin!”

“Yes, London is a bustling place, indeed,” I said. “And you wish to... to seek your fortune?” That sounded ominous.

“Tell the good doctor what your plans are, James,” Holmes prodded.

“I’m going to work for you two gentlemen,” James stated with assurance. “It’s not proper that two fine gentleman like yourselves should have no valet to do for them. I’m going to remedy that lack.”

“But James, Mr. Holmes and I don’t require a valet.” The beginning of a major headache was forming in my temples.

“I think you do,” said James, standing up purposefully. “Begging your pardons, sirs, but this place is a sight. It needs a good dusting and this carpet hasn’t been swept in an age. Look at all the ashes here! And your grate needs cleaning. And your boots polishing. And your cravat is all askew, Doctor. Here – let me.”

Before I could stop him, James had undone my tie and was retying if with a deft hand. 

“Neatly done,” sniped Holmes, from the corner where he had retreated.

I rubbed my aching head. “James, I hate to repeat myself, but we have no need of a valet – truly.”

The young man’s face fell. “I’m a good servant, Doctor, even if I’m just learning. Please don’t turn me away! Mr. Holmes – I appeal to you! Don’t send me back to Sherringford! If I have to stay there, I won’t be able to stand it. I want to be in London, where there’s people and things are happening. Nothing ever happens in Sussex. I’ll go mad down there.”

“But what about your mother?” I asked. “And your brother?”

“My brother is only waiting for summer so he can run off and join the Army,” said James. “And my mum – she’ll understand. I’ll write to her and tell her I have a good position with His Lordship’s brother and his friend. Then she won’t worry.”

That is when Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door and came in with the tea. “I see you are already familiar with your visitor, Doctor.” She set down the tray and arranged the cups on the table. I noticed that a new cup with a different pattern had replaced the one that had been broken accidently.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. James is a footman at Mr. Mycroft’s house.”

“So he told me,” she replied. “Will he be staying here?”

“I... I don’t know.” I threw another look at Holmes, but he continued puffing without saying a word.

“I can sleep anywhere,” James said brightly. “I can lie by the fireplace here and be quite content.”

“No, that wouldn’t be right,” I said. “You must be hungry, James. Why don’t you go down to the kitchen? Mrs. Hudson will find you some supper and a place to sleep tonight.”

“Perhaps he and the cat can curl up at the foot of your bed, Watson?” Holmes suggested. “You will all be very cozy, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to crowd you two gentleman,” James asserted. “But I don’t mind sleeping with a cat. I love all animals. Like old Gladstone here.” He knelt and rubbed behind the dog’s ears. “Such a good dog he is, aren’t you, lad?”

Gladstone grunted with bliss at the attention.

“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson have their own rooms – and their own beds!” Mrs. Hudson interjected forcefully. “Gentlemen in my lodgings don’t need to share their beds. This is not a common doss-house!”

“Of course, missus,” said James, contritely. “This is a very fine house. Not as grand and elegant as Sherringford, but very fine for London, I’m sure.”

Holmes stepped forward. “My dear Mrs. Hudson, if you could accommodate Mr. Hopkins for a while, Dr. Watson and I would be most grateful.”

“Well,” she said, weakening.

“Splendid!” Holmes gave the young man a dig. “James, if you would carry the tray down for Mrs. Hudson?”

“I’d be happy to oblige, missus.” He eagerly picked up the empty tray, as well as his sack, and followed her out of the room.

“Whatever are we to do with that boy?” I groaned, sinking into my armchair.

“Find him a real position,” said Holmes, pouring himself a cup of tea. “A tall, handsome, and well-spoken fellow like Hopkins should easily obtain work. But he cannot stay here for very long, getting underfoot and mooning around after you.”

“He doesn’t moon after me!” I retorted. “The very idea is absurd.”

“Would you like some Earl Grey?” Holmes asked, holding the teapot aloft.

“Don’t change the subject! We need to talk about... about...” I stopped, unable to form the words.

Holmes set down the pot and picked up his cup. “I am going to my room. I’m fatigued and I must get up early tomorrow to meet with the lawyers before they question Wiggins and Mitchell.”

“Holmes, please don’t walk away,” I begged. “There are a few things I must make clear.”

“No, you don’t,” Holmes flared. “You don’t need to make anything clear. Everything is already as clear as crystal. Now I’m going to bed – and I don’t expect that damned cat or Young Hopkins to climb in there with me!”

“As you wish.” I was in utter retreat and could not even begin to fight back.

“By the way,” said Holmes as a Parthian shot. “What the devil happened to my good china cup?”


	29. “A Package in the Morning Post”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes offers a new complication -- to put it mildly!

 

I slept late the next day. Thankfully, my repose was devoid of dreams. I believe my exhaustion and the stress of the events of the previous day collaborated with Morpheus to bring me the respite I so craved.

Of course, Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Hudson brought in my breakfast as soon as she heard me moving about the sitting room.

“Sausages,” she said. “And toast. Will you be wanting any more, Doctor?”

“No, this is splendid,” I replied, tucking in. “I find myself quite famished this morning.”

“It’s good to see you eating heartily,” Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. “Unlike Mr. Holmes. He rushed out of here so fast he barely took any tea. And he pulled young James away with his breakfast only half finished.”

“James?” I looked up in surprise. “Holmes took James away? Did he send him back to Sussex?”

“No, indeed, Doctor,” said Mrs. Hudson. “They went to that nasty gaol. Cleaned out my pantry of leftovers. Mr. Holmes says Mick Wiggins and that other boy are not getting proper food. Is that right?”

I nodded. “Feeding prisoners a sufficient diet is not a high priority at institutions of incarceration.”

“And the other boy is ill, Mr. Holmes says,” Mrs. Hudson stated with concern. “Surely they wouldn’t keep a sickly child in such a place?”

“Unfortunately, Mick and Dilly are being held pending charges for a very serious crime,” I acknowledged. “Their health is not a crucial issue to the authorities.”

“It’s not Christian!” she exclaimed. “I will make certain those boys have a good meal every day. I’ll have James carry it over to them. That way he’ll be of some use while he’s here.” She paused and cocked her head. “Is he going to be here long?”

That headache from the night before was bestirring again. “That I cannot say, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes feels James should easily find a position in the city. He is an excellent servant and very eager to please.”

“That he may be,” she said. “But the girls below stairs are already all agog over him. He’s a disruptive influence, mark my words.”

“Where did he sleep last night?” I inquired.

“On the sofa in my parlour,” she replied. “I can’t have him up in the attic where the girls sleep. They’d be up to all sorts of mischief, as you can imagine. That fellow is far too good-looking for safety.”

“Yes, I understand. We will sort it all out and find him a position in a suitable household. Mr. Mycroft might know of one. After all, James was working in his house.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And that cat – she seems to be settling in.”

I had completely forgotten about Wiggins’ pet. “Did she and Gladstone have a set-to?”

“I feared as much,” she responded. “But when the dog came down for his breakfast, the cat was sitting on the hearth rug, washing her paws as neat as you please. Gladstone took one took at her and then sat down and ate as if nothing was amiss. The cat hissed a warning at him, but otherwise there was little incident.”

“Poor old Gladstone has little experience of cats,” I pointed out. “He likely thinks she’s some curious kind of dog and is content to leave it at that. Let’s hope things remain at truce between them.”

“Amen to that, Doctor,” Mrs. Hudson agreed.

I ate my breakfast and was reviewing the morning papers, wondering how long Holmes and James would be gone, when the girl announced that I had a visitor. To my surprise it was Stamford.

“I’ve been meaning to write you, old chap,” I apologized. “But Holmes and I went away for a few days, to Sussex, and then I had patients, and...”

“Don’t think of it, old man,” Stamford said dismissively. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by. Did old Captain Phillips pay you a call?”

“Yes, yesterday. He seems a harmless duffer.”

“That he is,” said Stamford. “He likes to chat about his pains, but he’s healthy as a horse for a man his age.”

“Thank you for the referral,” I said in all sincerity. “It’s difficult to start up a practice after all these years, but I need to regain a measure of my independence... especially now.”

“Don’t know how you manage with Holmes,” Stamford remarked. “He’s certainly a queer duck. I don’t think I could live with him as long as you have.”

“Holmes has his ways,” I answered coolly. I might criticize Holmes and his peculiarities, but I didn’t like to hear others do so.

“You must come to dinner this Friday,” Stamford pressed. “To make up for our missed engagement. Jane is very eager that you meet her friend, Miss Morstan. She’s a very pretty young woman, Watson, and extremely agreeable.”

“I’m sure she is,” I returned. “But I’m deuced uncomfortable with all this matchmaking by these confounded women!”

Stamford laughed. “I know what you mean, old man. Women have marriage on the brain, that’s the truth. But it wouldn’t hurt you to meet the lady in question. It might even help.”

“Help?” I frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

“We have been acquaintances for a long while, Watson. Since before you went to Afghanistan,” Stamford leaned forward, confidentially. “So may I be candid?”

“I wish you would be.”

“You’ve been living here with Holmes for, what? A decade?”

“Not quite that,” I said. “Eight years this autumn, as I recollect.”

“And Holmes has... a certain reputation.” Stamford stepped carefully.

“A reputation?” I blinked. “If you mean he is well-known as a genius of deduction, a Bohemian and eccentric, and the world’s only private consulting detective, then he has that reputation.”

“I mean,” said Stamford, pointedly. “That Sherlock Holmes is known to be a man who – how shall I put it? – is unlikely ever to marry. Ever.”

“Yes, he’s a bachelor. What of it?” Now Stamford was moving into dangerous territory. “So are many men.”

“But not many men are like Holmes,” Stamford affirmed. “His oddness is... excessive. And you are his closest friend. You live here with him and have done so for years. Let us say that your relationship with Holmes might seem... questionable to some people.”

I felt breathless with anxiety. “Are you suggesting that people believe Holmes and I are... are in some kind of beastly ménage?”

“Oh, no!” Stamford cried in dismay. “Never! Not at all. I’d never suggest such a thing.” But the vehement way he was denying it told me that’s exactly what he was suggesting. “I’m only saying that you need to mingle with a wider circle of people. Meeting a few appropriate ladies could not hurt you, Watson. The charming Miss Morstan can be extremely diverting.”

And, he was telling me, being seen with eligible females would quiet the gossip about Holmes and myself.

“But if you don’t wish to meet the lady, merely say the word,” Stamford continued. “And I will not speak of it again.”

“No,” I said slowly. “I think I would very much like to meet Miss Morstan. You are right. I need to get out more. I have been retired from society long enough.

“Capital!” Stamford clapped me on the back. “You won’t regret it, old chap. Friday, then. We will dine at eight o’clock. Don’t fail me this time.”

“I will be there.”

After Stamford left I considered his words. Perhaps I had focused my life too much on Holmes. His cases. His obsessions. His queer ways. His... his everything.

That was the trouble. My entire existence was wrapped around Sherlock Holmes. I had little to occupy myself outside his compelling sphere. My meagre medical practice did not come close to interesting me in the way Holmes did. It did not rule my life, waking and sleeping, the way Holmes did. I was merely an appendage of Sherlock Holmes. An instrument. A shadow.

And I had never cared before about that. I was content to live in the light of his brilliant sun. To bask in his heat. To be grateful for every crumb he tossed me, never expecting more. 

Never expecting anything from him. 

But would that be the whole of my life? I had always hoped for more. A home and family I might call my own. Domestic happiness. Things Holmes eschewed and even mocked outright.

Love. That is what I, in my pathetically romantic way, coveted. Hungered for. Love.

But not with a female, no matter how agreeable she might be.

I went into Holmes’ bedchamber. I had only rarely entered its hallowed precincts in the years we had resided at 221b. Holmes liked his privacy and I respected that, although he did not feel the same compunction, often invading my room at all hours, dragging me from my bed and hastening me off into the night on some errand of adventure.

His quarters were Spartan. A bed, unmade. A table, piled with papers, books, and pipe paraphernalia. The press, gaped open, spilling a tumble of clothes onto the floor. Perhaps we did need James to keep order here, since Holmes would never allow Mrs. Hudson to breach his defenses.

Over the bed was a framed print by Goya, ‘The Sleep of Reason Engenders Monsters.’ I had always thought it a strange choice as a guardian of one’s repose – the sleeper, his head bowed, besieged by creatures of nightmare, their eyes lit by an infernal fire. I would not want to see that image every night, especially not when I was already beset by troubling dreams.

I stood there for a long while. I’m not certain what I was looking for, longing for. If only I could reach out my hand and grasp... something. But there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

I turned to leave, but my foot touched a package on the floor. I picked it up to place upon the table. Then something caught my eye. Something familiar about the handwriting. Something that tugged at the fog of my memory.

I didn’t remember such a package coming to Baker Street, although I usually retrieved the mail each day, so it must have come in that morning’s early post. My curiosity overcame me and since it had already been opened and perused...

There was a short note on top. “To Mr. Sherlock Holmes – For your enjoyment,” it read. And was signed, “Your very humble and excellent servant. M.” Enclosed were sketches, done on creamy paper of a kind common in Italy.

I knew the artist immediately. And I knew the unhappy subject, a young man portrayed in lewd and languid poses and attitudes I will not describe, done by the same man who had painted the portraits at the Irishman’s gallery. For they had been created for the Irishman. For his enjoyment. 

I shoved them back into the envelope, sick at heart.

No wonder Holmes despised me! No wonder he could barely stand the sight of me. I was not fit for the company of a decent, honourable man such as Sherlock Holmes. The sooner I quit these lodgings, the better.

I retreated to my room, to my bed, waiting and brooding long hours until the afternoon turned into evening.

“Good God, Watson!” Holmes cried, bursting in. “What the devil are you doing lazing about like this? Dress yourself! We are going out.”

“Out?” I sat up in bed. “Where? For what purpose?”

“Why in search of evidence, my boy,” said Holmes. “I must change now, too. Put on evening clothes. Something suitable for a gentlemen looking for amusement.”

“Amusement? You mean we are going to the opera?”

“Hardly,” Holmes sniffed. “Somewhere else altogether. The game is truly afoot, Watson! We go to find Mick Wiggins’ and Dilly Mitchell’s compatriots, and, I trust, clues to the killers of William Fisher. I mean to solve this case!”

I sprang from the bed, all my reservations forgotten in the face of Holmes’ enthusiasm. “But how? Where are we going?”

“Aye, there’s the rub,” said Holmes, grinning slyly. “We are going to Cleveland Street, my dear fellow, to the most notorious boy brothel in London!”


	30. “An Important Contact”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson plunge into the underworld.

 

I dressed in a blind whirl and was in a hansom with Holmes in less than a half-hour.

“What’s the hurry?” I asked, still adjusting my cravat in the cab. “I should have let James do this.”

“James is of no consequence,” Holmes dismissed. “You are perfectly capable of dressing yourself without assistance. You have done for many a year without a valet.”

“As long as the young man is resident in the household, we might as well make use of him,” I replied. “For instance, our rooms could use a thorough cleaning.”

“Our rooms are fine,” Holmes sniffed. “I don’t want meddling strangers snooping about our premises.”

“But you have no difficulty snooping around in other people’s abodes.”

“That’s business,” Holmes averred.

As the cab rattled through the dark streets I made notice of something. “Holmes, we are going in the wrong direction. Cleveland Street isn’t this far from Baker Street. I believe we just passed through Russell Square!”

“We did,” he said. “We are proceeding to Holborn.”

“Holborn? But I thought...”

“Wiggins informed me that if we, as gentlemen unknown to them, approached the house on Cleveland Street, we would not be admitted. We must either be referred by another patron, or be brought there by one of Hammond’s boys.”

“Hammond?”

“He’s the proprietor. The place is not a house in the way of, say, Madame Marie’s in Kensington, or Madame Clary’s in St. James, where the girls are resident. It’s more a house of assignation where boys bring gentlemen and are then provided rooms, although Wiggins says Hammond will arrange a boy for a good customer.”

“I see.” The discussion was making me extremely uncomfortable. “I say, Holmes, is all this necessary?”

“We are gathering information,” he replied testily. “If you do not wish to take part in the investigation, say so at once and I shall tell the cab driver to pull over so you may get out.”

I considered my options. But I could not abandon my friend after having come this far. I owed him that much. “No. I’ll stay with you.”

“Good man.”

The hansom entered into a dark area of London. The streets were narrower and the houses older and in ill repair. But there was an air of activity – men darting in and out of public houses and other buildings that seemed to have a sinister purpose. But I saw well-dressed gentlemen as well, mingling with the lower orders.

“This is the place,” said Holmes, rapping on the roof of the cab. The vehicle halted before a lively public house. I heard music within and the sound of shrill laughter.

“The Red Cockerel,” I pronounced, looking at the sign swinging above the door. “Isn’t this the place Young Griffith mentioned?”

“The very same,” answered Holmes. “This is where he met Dilly Mitchell. And where we are going to find our contact to take us into Cleveland Street.”

“Who is that?” I inquired.

“A boy whore named Thommie. A friend of Wiggins and Mitchell. Wiggins says he’s here most nights.” Holmes exited the hansom, but I hesitated. “Come, Watson.”

I climbed down, but I pulled my cloak close around me, as if to shield myself. I did not like the look or the feel of this place and I certainly did not wish to enter it. But Holmes, in his fearless way, plunged forward.

We were met by a raucous crowd, a mix of unkempt rogues, young City clerks, and expensively turned-out nobs. In this motley assembly we did not even warrant a second glance. But one thing was notable – there was not a single female to be seen in the place.

Holmes stepped to the bar and ordered two pints of bitters. He handed me the glass and I tasted it.

“Horrible,” I pronounced and set it back on the bar.

“Men do not come here for the quality of their brew,” said Holmes, drinking down his beer without flinching. “We must find our way to the main attraction.”

He linked his arm with mine and elbowed his way through the crowd to a door overseen by a burly, black-bearded fellow.

“A shilling,” said the man. “Each.”

“Certainly.” Holmes tendered over the coins. “And one for you, my good man.”

“Thanks, Captain.” He tipped his cloth cap. “Enjoy the show.”

The room was smoke-filled and crammed with small tables. All the denizens were turned to a stage at the far end. An out-of-tune pianoforte played while a slender figure in a mauve gown sang. I did not recognize the song, but the words I caught were vulgar beyond belief. Something about a sailor and a maiden who was not quite a maiden. Every verse was greeted with catcalls and hoots of laughter.

“Who is the performer?” Holmes asked a young man standing near us. 

“Lady Lee,” he replied. “Ain’t she a pip?”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. He leaned towards me. “Dilly Mitchell’s friend, Lewis Pratt, I believe.”

Lady Lee finished the song to much applause. The creature curtsied and blew kisses as if he were on stage at Covent Garden. Then he began another number, even more obscene than the first, this one about a soldier with three legs – except one was decidedly not a leg.

“Really, Holmes,” I protested. “This place is... is... objectionable.”

“Don’t be such a prig, Watson,” said Holmes. He was scanning the throng, looking for something – or someone. “This way.” He pulled me along with him. A tall, thin man was standing in the corner, smoking a thick cigar. “Pardon, but are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

The man frowned. “I might be. And who might you be?”

“I am Mr. Sherringford and this is my intimate friend, Mr. Baker. We were recommended this place by our friend, Mr. Griffith.”

“Don’t think I know him,” said the man, taking in our evening clothes. “But we welcome gentlemen, long as they behave themselves, know what I mean?” And then he guffawed.

“We shall endeavour to be on our best behavior, I assure you,” said Holmes. “Mr. Griffith said that we might find ... er... a special kind of entertainment meant for discerning gentlemen. We are willing to pay if such entertainment is offered. I believe it is called ‘poses plastiques.’”

The man nodded. “We might have something in that line upstairs. But it’ll cost you. Five bob each for the show. If you make an arrangement afterwards, it’s your own affair.”

“That is more than satisfactory, my good fellow,” said Holmes. His fingers dug into my arm in excitement. “Now we are getting somewhere,” he whispered to me.

The man indicated that we follow him down a hall and up a back staircase. Above was another room, this one smaller than the theatre below. Chairs were grouped around a raised platform. On the platform was a divan covered with a velvet drapery. A few men were already sitting, most well-dressed older gentlemen. They glanced at us with curiosity, but then looked away. The man collected our money and then left.

We sat down and waited. After a short while a young man entered from a side door. He was tall, fair, and quite handsomely built, like a guardsman. He reminded me slightly of James. He stood by the divan and then began to take off his clothes. When he was completely nude he assumed a number of strongman poses, turning and flexing his muscles, which were impressive. I had witnessed a strongman show once at a fair in Surrey, but the man posing had been covered by a loincloth. This young fellow’s show was not at all hindered by his lack of garments. In fact, he seized his manhood and began to manipulate it with great gusto. The gentlemen in the audience leaned forward in anticipation.

“I say, Holmes...”

“Hush, Watson,” said Holmes. “The tableau is just beginning.”

The side door opened and another figure emerged. This was a slender lad with black hair and huge dark eyes. He was wearing only a silk robe, which he swiftly doffed. His body was pale and soft compared to the taller man. They made a studied contrast that was quite enticing. I held my breath as they began caressing and kissing each other.

“I believe that is Thommie,” said Holmes. His mouth was at my ear. “Our contact.”

“I was afraid of that,” I replied. And I took out my handkerchief and mopped the sweat from my fevered brow.


	31. “A Test of Patience”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson meet their contact.

 

“Holmes,” I hissed. “I think we had better leave this place!”

“Not until we make contact with Thommie,” he insisted. “He is our admission to Cleveland Street, so we must wait until the tableau is concluded.”

Thommie, the dark-haired lad, knelt before the muscular fellow and took his manhood into his mouth. A man sitting in front of us gasped and whispered to his friend. The friend, in turn, reached his hand into the first man’s trousers and began to stroke him. I turned my head away, but there was no place in the room I could look without seeing something that I wished to avoid. All around us the watching men were pleasuring themselves as the scene before us all continued.

The tall man, his eyes closed in bliss, suddenly opened them. He stopped the lad’s ministrations and raised him to his feet. Then he lay Thommie on the velvet-covered divan, lifted his legs high, and began to fuck him vigourously.

“Amazing muscle control,” Holmes observed as the man thrust into the lad, every motion explicitly visible to the rapt audience. “That takes a fair amount of practice.”

“I imagine,” I gulped.

The man withdrew his cock and placed the boy on hands and knees. Then he put his mouth to Thommie’s nether regions, avidly licking and tonguing him, as the boy moaned loudly.

“I wonder how many times a night they perform this act?” Holmes mused.

“Is that all you can say about this... this disgraceful display?” I returned.

“I don’t see what is so disgraceful about it,” Holmes said with confounding calm. “It is mere biology. A physical function. That society deems such deeds as either moral or immoral is a quirk of the era. The shame is that some children of the lower classes are forced into such occupations, while so-called gentlemen are obliged to pay to observe them, instead of each man being free to couple as he will – if that is his desire.”

“And you have no such desires?” I questioned. I noted that his hands were clenched tightly in his lap.

Holmes did not look at me, but kept his eyes upon the stage. “I did not say any such thing, Watson. My desires, if they exist, are of no consequence to this case. We are here to solve a crime and serve our client. That is all that matters.”

“You are a liar,” I muttered under my breath.

“And you are something as well,” he retorted, anger in his tone. 

“I am leaving.” 

I began to rise, but his hand stayed me.

“No. Not yet.”

On stage the muscular man had moved the boy into yet another position, once again on his back, but it was obvious that their exertions were nearing a climax. The man grunted and pulled his glistening manhood out of Thommie, spending thunderously all over the lad’s pale chest. He then bent to lap up his own emissions like a cat, as Thommie panted in exhaustion. It was obvious that many members of the audience had also reached their culmination, as a flurry of handkerchiefs were produced to arrest the damage.

The performers stood and bowed, Thommie gathering up his robe, while the fair-haired man awkwardly scrambled back into his breeches and shirt. The lad straightened the velvet covering and then stepped off the stage. A moment later two young females, one blonde and one redheaded, entered through the side door and began to undress one another.

“This must be Act Two,” Holmes remarked, standing up. “But now we must find our contact and proceed to the next phase of the evening.”

I shuddered to imagine what that might be.

Thommie was standing by a small bar at the back of the room. He was flushed from his toils, drinking a glass of beer to quench his thirst.

“A first rate exhibition,” said Holmes. “Let me offer you my congratulations.”

The lad grinned and batted his eyes coyly. “Thank you kindly, sirs. I’m happy to be of interest to you fine gentlemen.” His dark eyes moved to me and swept me up and down, appraisingly. “I see you particularly enjoyed my performance, sir.”

My face went red at the realization that my body was betraying my interest in what had passed on the stage.

“Quite,” I said, covering myself with my cloak.

“Don’t fret, sir,” said the lad. “I like that gentlemen find me agreeable.” Thommie brushed past Holmes and moved close to me. I could smell the odor of sweat and semen, a sweet and heady mixture, on him. “Because I’m ever so agreeable. If you’re of a mind, I’m free for the rest of the evening.”

“We would certainly be interested in your continued company,” said Holmes, his tone business-like. “And your name is?”

“Thommie, sir,” he said to Holmes. But his small hand was on me. “Eight shillings for both you gentlemen. You can have me one and then the other, or together if you wish. Whatever is your pleasure.”

Holmes coughed. “I believe that yonder couch is already in use. Besides, Mr. Baker and myself are not professional performers.” He nodded in the direction of the stage, where the two females had produced an ivory implement and were busily impaling each other with it.

“You’re a rare card, sir!” Thommie laughed. “Not here! I know a place we can go. Nice rooms suitable for gentlemen. And they offer champagne for an extra charge.”

“I don’t know,” said Holmes, pretending to consider the proposition. “Is it far?”

“Not far in a cab. It’s in Cleveland Street,” said the lad. “If that would be satisfactory?”

“Quite satisfactory,” Holmes replied. He cast me a triumphant glance.

“I’ll go climb into me duds,” said Thommie. “Wait right here, gentlemen. I’ll be back in two shakes.” And the boy disappeared through the side door.

“Holmes, you cannot be serious!” I said to him. “What will we do when we get to this... this place on Cleveland Street?”

“Investigate,” said Holmes. “I am convinced that establishment is connected to William Fisher’ murder. He was a procurer for that house. He recruited both Wiggins and Mitchell, as well as this boy, Thommie. Gaining entry to the place is critical if we are to find evidence to free the lads. Why so reluctant? You cannot tell me that you have never crossed the threshold of a brothel, Watson, for I know that is not the case.”

“I have not in many years,” I maintained, my nerves rattled. “And one that traffics in... in sodomy is beyond the pale!”

Holmes stared at me evenly, his eyes like ice. “Is it indeed, my dear fellow?”

I turned away, unable to face my most intimate friend. “You push me to my limit, Holmes.”

“And you test my patience,” Holmes said through gritted teeth. “Here comes the lad. Let us go and find a cab. The night is yet young and our next stop is Cleveland Street.”


	32. “A Nondescript House  on a Nondescript Street”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The House on Cleveland Street.

 

The cab ride from Holborn to Cleveland Street was the longest I have ever endured. Or at least it felt that way.

“You seem nervous, sir,” said Thommie, who showed no trace of disquiet at being in a hansom with two strangers on his way to have sexual congress with them. Or so he believed.

“I’m fine,” I replied shortly.

“This is a new experience for us,” Holmes interjected. Then he looked at me sideways. “For me.”

“Blast you,” I mumbled.

“Are you a married man, sir?” the boy asked me.

“We are both bachelors,” Holmes answered, taking out his pipe and lighting it. “We reside together in Marylebone.”

“Oh?” Thommie’s interest was piqued. “Been together a long time, have you?”

“Eight years,” said Holmes in an insufferably steady manner. “Won’t it be, my dear Baker?”

But I refused to enter into such a conversation.

“And never had a boy since then?” Thommie marveled. “Many of the gents that hire me are married gentleman. They don’t say so, but I can tell. Some are regulars. Once they have Thommie, they always come back for more,” he boasted.

“Have you worked at this establishment long?” Holmes probed.

“On and off about a year,” said the lad. “I don’t always go there. I have lodgings in Clerkenwell, but they ain’t suitable to take a gentleman. I have a friend who sometimes lends me his room, but he’s in stir at the moment.” Thommie’s face went solemn. “He’s in trouble for certain.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I offered. 

“That’s not the half of it,” Thommie said. “It’s a rum game. Everyone knows he didn’t do...” The boy hesitated. “What they say he did. But who’ll believe the likes of us? It makes me afraid for him.”

“Surely if your friend is innocent, the truth will out,” I opined.

The boy turned his huge dark eyes on me. “Who would listen, sir? And who will bother to find the truth? I’ve seen boys swing who was dead innocent. But who has the price of a mouthpiece? The judge sits in his grand chair and pronounces and who’s to say he’s wrong? It’s just one boy less on the street and one body more for Potter’s Field.” 

“That’s a very cynical viewpoint,” said Holmes, puffing his pipe thoughtfully.

“It’s life,” the lad shrugged. Then he glanced out the window. “Here’s the street! It’s Number 19.”

It was a nondescript house on a nondescript street, with nothing sinister in its aspect, and nothing to signal that it was a place of assignation for sodomites, only a gaslight at the door and a brass knocker in the shape of a unicorn.

The door was opened by a man equally nondescript. He looked more like a clerk than a male madam: of middling height, with a dark moustache and thinning hair, in shirt sleeves. This was Hammond, the proprietor.

“’Allo, Charlie,” Thommie greeted him. “I’ve brought two amiable gentlemen.”

“Welcome, sirs.” Hammond ushered us in. “I’m very pleased to have you. The back parlour is free this evening, Thommie.”

“That’ll suit nicely,” said the boy. “It’s good-sized for two.”

“Follow me, gents,” Hammond said. “Thommie will collect for the use of the room, but if you’d like some champagne or other such drink, just say the word. We aim to make our clients as cozy as possible.”

“It seems rather quiet tonight,” Holmes observed. His restless eyes were taking in every inch of the premises.

“You should be here of a Friday or Saturday night, sir,” Hammond said. “It can be lively. But I find most gentlemen like a quiet house. There’s no discord here, gentlemen. Never any discord at all. Thommie’ll tell you.”

“That’s a fact,” Thommie affirmed. “Only high-class gents and the best boys in town.”

“That is good to know,” said Holmes, raising an eyebrow.

We were shown a room in the back of the house. A small fire was crackling in the grate, but the furnishing were sparse – a plain wooden chair, a table, and a bed. Even the walls were bare – a faded floral wallpaper, but not even a cheap print hanging there to break the monotony.

Thommie seemed quite familiar with the place, for he immediately hung up his jacket on a peg and then took off his boots.

“You gents want to take turns?” he asked. “Or do you fancy having me together? What do you like to do to each other? I reckon you’re the top man, sir,” Thommie winked at me. “You have the air of a man what likes to give orders. Am I right?”

I stared at Holmes, imploringly. “Er... Sherringford?”

“You two carry on,” he said. “I will go in search of some of that champagne our host offered.”

My mouth fell open. “Carry... on?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I will return directly.”

“I say... wait a moment!” I seized Holmes by the sleeve. 

But he shook me off. “I must go and see to the champagne... Baker. I said I will be back shortly.” And he walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

“Some gentlemen are shy,” said Thommie, stripping off his trousers and standing only in his shirt. “Your mate will come around. He can watch a bit to put himself in the mood. I saw him watching me at the Cockerel. I saw him licking his lips. He’ll be a goer once he gets started.”

“But... I don’t think we should begin yet...” 

“I don’t mind. Here.” The boy was undoing my collar. “This is my favorite part. You already know what I look like in the all-together, but I never know what a gentleman looks like ’til I unwrap him.” He proceeded to unbutton my shirt. “Oh, I like this! I like a hairy bloke. Such a clean-shaven gentleman you are, but such a mass of fur underneath. That’s a real man, that is!”

“Perhaps... we should wait for my friend to return,” I said, stalling. “With the champagne.”

“You don’t need no false courage, sir,” said Thommie. “You’re already willing and able.” His hand cupped the front of my trousers. “Like a rock, you are! And I’m ready to have a go. Roddy already loosened me up nicely.”

“Roddy?” I was beginning to sweat.

“The tall bloke at the pub. He’s got a big cock, but yours is no smaller, I swear, sir!”

“Thank you for the compliment, but...”

“It’s nothing but the truth,” said the boy. “Come now, sir.” He pulled his shirt over his head and took a small vial from the table. “A little of this to ease the way.” He poured the oil onto his fingers and stroked up and down the crack of his arse. “I’m only waiting for your pleasure, sir.”

I stood there, my mind telling me to flee, while my body was willing me to press forward. Holmes, goddamn him, had left me in this situation. Abandoned me to what he must have known was my fatal weakness. The mortal sin I could not deny.

I removed the remainder of my clothes.

I ran my hands over Thommie’s body. He was smoother and more girlish than Mick Wiggins, but no less wanton. This was not the body I desired. Not the man I had dreamed of or thought upon for so many hours of my life. This was something of the moment. Something bought with money, but no less willing for being bought. No less sweet.

He kissed me and I kissed back. We fell upon the bed and the rusty springs rattled so I thought they would give way. But they did not – no, they did not give way. Thommie’s legs wrapped around my waist, pressing me to him, into him. In my mind I pictured the tableau, with the fair young man thrusting mightily and Thommie squealing and moaning. But it was I who was thrusting. I who was delving deeply into the boy. He clutched and clawed at my back, his dark eyes rolled back in unfeigned delirium.

“Harder!” he cried, urging me onward. “Oh, yes! Lord, sir! Yes!”

I shut my eyes. It was not Thommie’s face I was seeing. Not Thommie’s arse I was ravaging. Not Thommie into whom I was spending.

“My God,” I sighed, collapsing on top of the boy.

“That was rare, sir!” Thommie cried. “I came all over, too, just from your cock inside me.” He sat up and looked over my shoulder. “Are you ready for a go, too, sir? Just give me a few moments to catch me breath.”

I looked around to see Holmes, standing before the closed door. I had not heard him enter, but I knew that he had observed all.

Observed and did not speak. Only watched.

I got off the bed and stood before him, naked but unashamed. 

“Have you seen what you wanted to see?” I said, my eyes never leaving his face. “Are you satisfied? And are you ready to leave now?”

“Yes,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “I am ready. I have seen all I need to see here, and learned all I need to know.”

“Good,” I said, picking my clothes from off the floor. “And so have I.”


	33. “A Name To Be Feared”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spider at the center of the web.

The boy, Thommie, protested mightily when we told him we must leave, but Holmes silenced him with a sovereign. We left the house on Cleveland Street promptly and found a hansom in front of Middlesex Hospital to take us back to Baker Street.

In the cab we did not speak.

What was there to say? Nothing. I knew that what had transpired in that fateful room signaled the end of our friendship, but I also knew that Holmes had practically orchestrated the entire disaster. Orchestrated it to what purpose, I could not imagine.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

But I had known ever since my first entanglement with the Irishman that my unnatural and unlawful desires would be my eventual downfall. I had lived too long with Holmes, co-mingling my life with his, putting aside any thought of a separate existance, following his lead. I had stood by his side in moments of extreme danger, tended him in illness and injury, and attempted – in vain! – to wean him from his willful and damaging slavery to the needle.

And all that while I had loved him. Desired him. Hid my hideous yearnings under the veil of friendship. And this was the ignoble result.

The hansom came to a halt before 221b and we emerged. The street was silent. It was well after midnight and all law-abiding people were home in their beds.

Holmes paid the driver while I stood on the pavement, regarding the building that had been my home for eight happy and exciting years. Then he came and stood beside me. 

“I say, Watson...” he began. 

But his words were cut off suddenly. I heard an odd noise, like a low whistle, and felt a blast of air, and then I was falling forward...

I must have blacked out momentarily, for when I opened my eyes I was face down on the pavement, with Holmes on top of me. He rolled to the side and seized me in his arms.

“Good God, Watson! Speak! Are you all right?”

“I... I think so.” My head ached and my limbs were trembling. I reached for my top hat, which had fallen from my head.

“You’re bleeding!” he cried. He began to handle me all over, as if searching for a wound.

“It’s my head,” I said. I put my hand to my forehead. There was a small gash just above my right eyebrow. “It’s nothing. A mere scratch.”

“Don’t move!” He ordered. “There may be a worse injury.”

“I said it is nothing!” I tried to push him away, but he insisted on helping me to my feet. “I must have stumbled.” 

“You did not stumble,” Holmes stated. “That was a gunshot.”

“A... a gunshot?” I said. “I heard no gun. Are you certain?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Now we must get into the house before our hunter makes another attempt.” He pulled me up the steps, retrieved his latchkey from his pocket, and opened the door, shoving me inside.

I removed my cape, but noted a tear at the knee of my dress trousers. “I swear, Holmes, you are being overly melodramatic. Look at this! These evening clothes are almost new!”

“And I swear I am not,” he said firmly. “And if our assailant had not been in such a hurry to kill me, which hindered his aim, we both might be the worse for a tear in your pants!”

I stared at Holmes. “You are serious about being shot at. Then why did I not hear the report?”

“You did,” said Holmes. “Let us go upstairs and I will explain all.”

We entered our chamber to find James asleep on the sofa. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Good heavens, Doctor! What happened to your head?”

“A small accident,” said Holmes. “I will take care of it.”

But James sprang to his feet. “I’ll do it, Doctor! Let me get some hot water and I’ll fix you up right as rain.”

“I said I would do it!” Holmes barked. “And what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be sleeping in Mrs. Hudson’s parlour.”

“I thought you gentlemen might need some assistance when you got back from your night out,” James retorted. “Brushing off your capes and toppers and such. Sit here, Doctor, and I’ll get a towel to bathe your head.” 

“And I say you should go downstairs now!” Holmes flared.

“Please end this bickering!” I cried. “My head aches enough without a row! James, if you would go down to my consulting rooms and bring up my bag. All I will need is in it. I’ll take care of my wound myself.”

“Right away, Doctor!” The young man bolted out the door on his errand.

“I’m sending him back to Sussex tomorrow,” Holmes muttered. “He’s always underfoot.”

“He’s trying to be of use,” I said.

“He’s a deuced nuisance!” Holmes returned. Then he took out a clean handkerchief. “You’re still bleeding. There’s blood on your shirtfront.”

I took the cloth and pressed it to my head. “Thank you.” I paused, watching him pace nervously. “You really think that was a gun?”

“I know it was,” said Holmes. “An air-gun. And I know who shot it.”

I frowned. “Air-gun? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s an invention of a certain German and is used by assassins and other cowards who wish to kill without being heard.” He stopped pacing and took out his pipe, lighting it with agitated fingers. “There is only one in England that I know of and it is owned by...”

The door opened and James came back into the room. “Here’s your bag, Doctor.” He set it on the table. “I fetched it as quick as I could.”

“Thank you, James,” I said, opening the bag. I took out a bottle of alcohol, cotton, and a roll of tape. “I think this should be sufficient.”

“Let me help you, Doctor,” the young man said eagerly, reaching for the cotton.

“You will return to Mrs. Hudson’s parlour and go to bed,” Holmes ordered. “Let Watson alone – for now.”

“But...” James cast me a beseeching glance.

“It’s late, James,” I said. “Good-night.”

“Right.” He nodded, quite abashed. “Good-night, Doctor. And you, too, Mr. Holmes.” And he went out.

“Thank God!” Holmes slipped into his chair, sulking. “That lad is a pest. I haven’t had time to find him a proper job and at this rate he’ll be here until Doomsday!”

“The lad means well.” I swabbed my forehead with alcohol to clean out the cut. It stung, but only a little. Then I applied some healing paste, covering it with a small plaster. “Done! I am still capable of doctoring myself. Now, you were saying about this air-gun?”

“Yes!” said Holmes, leaning forward, his interest sparked once again. “There’s only one man in England who owns one, and only one man, his henchman, who can wield it. I fear I am coming too close to them for comfort and they have decided to eliminate me. But, alas, you were almost taken out instead.”

“Eliminate you?” I shuddered. “Do you mean the murderers of William Fisher?”

“Bah!” Holmes ejaculated. “Small fry! I believe from the information I obtained from Wiggins and which was confirmed by some intelligence I gathered tonight, that Fisher was killed by ruffians in the employ of a larger, more sinister gang – the same gang that is involved in crime all over this great city. And who shot at us tonight.”

“Do you really know who the murderers are?”

“Of course,” Holmes sniffed. “A pair of petty malefactors named Harrington and Noonan. Fisher was not kicking in a fair share of the loot he was getting from the victims he and Wiggins and poor Dilly Mitchell were blackmailing. Instead, he was gambling with it – and losing. But the gambling dives in London are part of this greater syndicate, as are many of the lower public houses, opium dens, and brothels – including the one we patronized this evening. So Fisher’ cheating of his criminal fellows came swiftly to the attention of the brutal genius at the center of this vast enterprise, a man so dreaded that even his minions tremble to speak his name.”

My mind cast back to Mick Wiggins’ words in his prison cell and I felt ice solidify around my heart. “And are you afraid to speak his name, Holmes?”

“No,” he said, gazing at me with his piercing eyes. “I am not. In the London Underworld he is known as the Professor. But I know him by his true name – James Moriarty.”

I turned my face away, my worst fears realized. James Moriarty. The Irishman.


	34. “A Mirror of Melancholy”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For young John Watson there was no escaping the Irishman.

The Irishman.

Would there be no way to escape him? No place where I could be safe from his malevolent sway?

I lay in my bed that night and turned the question over and over in my aching head. But all I could return to was the pervasiveness of the Irishman in my history – and that he was still a force who might yet prevail.

For the first weeks I was in his house, I never left the room in which I had first been imprisoned. During the day I stared through the bars on the window, like a bird who vaguely remembers the sky but can no longer fly. In the evening I bathed and prepared myself for the Irishman. And when he came, I never asked questions, never denied him, but only submitted. That was my function – to submit.

After a while I thought I’d go mad if I didn’t get out of there. I began to pick up the books on the Irishman’s private shelf and read them, trying not to let my mind rot or turn to evil. His personal library was an eclectic one, containing everything from the classics in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, to the sensational novels of Wilkie Collins, but tilted towards the sciences, both practical and theoretical. And so I read. I believe those books saved my sanity, but I didn’t understand how I would be saved until much later.

Once he was certain I was ‘tamed’ enough to trust, the Irishman gave me leave to explore the house. I still spent most of my days in idleness, reading and staring into space, with little to occupy my body or my mind, except for the night hours when the Irishman found me to be of use. His days were mainly spent in his study, working on calculations and directing his real business – consolidating his hold on the criminal empire he was in the process of building. Occasionally he would repair to his college and lecture, maintaining the fiction that he was a humble professor of Mathematics. And he played that role superbly – with his mesmerizing gaze and commanding voice, he would have made a fine actor, if that had been his desire.

This indolent life took its toll, leaving my body slack and weakened, which was not to the Irishman’s liking. So he instructed his bodyguards to teach me fisticuffs and also engaged an Alsatian fencing master to spar with me daily with the foil and shortstick. The Alsatian started me on a course of exercise to strengthen my legs and upper body – a regimen that served me well in my recovery from the horrors of Afghanistan and which I use to this day to keep in fighting trim.

Eventually the Irishman allowed me to leave the house, but always well-supervised. But I made no attempt to flee. Where would I have escaped to? There was nowhere in London – or even England and beyond – where the Irishman’s reach did not extend. I knew that to cross him would be to forfeit my life, and I was young and still treasured that life, even as I loathed the state of it. 

I strolled on Hampstead Heath, I visited my tailor in Mayfair and ordered expensive clothes – money was no object, as the Irishman’s credit was inexhaustible – I lunched at the Café Royal, and I drove in the Irishman’s carriage. On rare occasions he accompanied me, usually to the opera or the theatre, especially when an Italian singer was presented or there was an offering of Shakespeare, preferably a bloody tragedy. 

But these public displays depressed me. My fear was that I would meet someone I had known in my previous life. And it was difficult to avoid such a happenstance, especially since London, although a vast city in theory, is like a small village at a certain level of society – you meet the same people at the same places. And whenever I saw one of my friends from my days of freedom, I would turn away, as if I did not recognize them. And I would see them whispering. I knew that my liaison with this wealthy Irishman was known and commented upon, much to my shame.

One evening we were awaiting our carriage by the pillars of the Lyceum Theater. We had just seen ‘Titus Andronicus’ – a gruesome play, to my mind – when I spied my brother emerge and pause to light a cigarette. He turned to toss away the match and saw us. The look on his face as he beheld me, standing in evening clothes next to the imperious Irishman, was one of disgust and contempt. My heart was wrenched. He was, after all, my only living relative, my only connection to my mother and my past.

“Henry!” I cried, stepping towards him.

“Go away, John!” he hissed. “How dare you approach me? You have disgraced our family name! Don’t you know that everyone is speaking of you and your... your degenerate companion?” He glared at the Irishman, who stood calm and dangerously silent. “You are not fit for decent society!”

“And you, sir,” said the Irishman. “You are a drunken sot. How dare you upbraid your brother? Look to your own affairs, Henry Watson, for they are in deep trouble. Do not judge your betters.”

My brother, misguided fool that he was, sneered at the Irishman, which, I am convinced in retrospect, sealed his downfall. “I will judge as I will. You have made my weak-minded brother into your catamite, to his shame and mine! If I had a stick here, I would beat you with it!”

The Irishman’s arm whipped out and held Henry in his iron grip. “And if you took a stick to me, I would take it away and break it over your witless head! Apologize to your brother now, or you will be sorrier than you have ever been in your life!” Then he released Henry, shoving him back against one of the pillars.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the show, of which Henry was more than aware. He carefully adjusted his clothing as if he had been soiled by a leper’s touch and then spoke loudly: “I will not apologize. There is no need. I no longer recognize this creature as my kin. I bid you good-evening.” And he stalked off without a glance backward.

We drove back to Hampstead in silence. There was nothing to say. My humiliation was complete. In the days that followed, my anger at myself and the world grew. In my bouts with the fencing master I no longer attempted to score off him, I attempted to run him through. And when I boxed with the Irishman’s bodyguards I urged them on to punish me as best they were able. But the Irishman’s servants had been instructed never to hurt me, no matter how I might bait them, under pain of their own death, and so my frustration intensified. 

In my mad state, I pressed the Irishman to be rough with me in bed, lashing out at him in an effort to goad his passion into violence. For I knew he was a violent man, capable of killing me with his bare hands if that was his wish. And since I was too much the coward to kill myself, I wanted him to kill me instead. It seemed the only solution.

But to my dismay, he met my self-destructive fury with a surprising gentleness, even tenderness. That is when all the fight left me, for I knew something then I did not want to know – the Irishman loved me. He didn’t simply desire me or selfishly wish to possess me, he was in love with me. And that love defeated me utterly. I took to my bed, unable to eat or speak, and I could see fear in the Irishman’s eyes – fear that I would wither and die.

“We will leave England,” he whispered, after a parade of doctors had examined me and pronounced that there was nothing wrong with me – at least, nothing physical. “We will travel to the Continent. These people in London are worthless. They are not fit to lick your boots. And your brother is the worst of them. He will not be so high and mighty for long, Johnny Lad.”

And so we travelled. I revisited the great cities – Paris, Florence, Venice, Rome – but this time seeing them from grand carriages and opulent villas instead of the small pensiones and café s of only a few years before. In France and Italy a wealthy man with a kept boy was nothing unusual. Perhaps they gossiped about us behind our backs, but we were always welcomed, even fawned over. That is what money and power can do – even more so than extreme beauty, it will open any door.

We were at a reception for an Italian prince in Rome when I was startled to see Lady Percy standing on the other side of the salon. She was observing me and the Irishman. I knew from her expression that she was not pleased. I pleaded a headache and the Irishman took me back to our hotel before she endeavoured to speak with me.

But a few days later I was sitting at a café near the Spanish Steps when a shadow fell across my English newspaper.

“John,” she said. “May I join you?”

“Certainly, Lady Percy,” I stood and pulled out a chair for her. She looked older and sadder, but perhaps that memory is only a mirror of my own melancholy mood.

“I saw you at the reception,” she said. “I was not aware you were in Rome.” She paused. “Or that you had been taken up by...”

“I know,” I interrupted. “We have only been in Rome a week and hardly seen anyone. And we are leaving soon for Naples and Capri. We have taken a villa on the island. It should be rather amusing.” I yawned to show how little it all meant to me.

She looked at me as one looks at a silly, wayward child who is racing towards the edge of a cliff. “You left Rome last time without taking my husband’s stickpin. I promised it to you.” She opened her reticule and took out a small velvet box. “I was hoping to meet you today, so I carried it with me.”

“I must not,” I said, feeling guilty. She had been so good to me.

“Nonsense, my boy!” She pressed it into my hand. “You would not begrudge an old woman her will, would you?”

“I suppose not.” Inside the box was a beautiful golden stickpin adorned with a perfect sapphire. “It’s exquisite!” I exclaimed.

“It’s the exact color of your eyes, my dear,” she said. “And it will look much better on you than ever it looked on Lord Percy.” She patted my hand. “John, if you need money, you have only to ask. I will give you the fare back to England – or wherever you might wish to go. America, perhaps. I have friends in New York. I will write you a letter of introduction.”

I took a deep breath. “You mean... if I leave... him?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I don’t know why you have agreed to this arrangement and I don’t want to know, but it is not too late to escape. You are a mere child, John. You have your whole life ahead of you. Do not waste it... this way.”

“Thank you, Lady Percy, for your concern,” I said, pocketing her gift. “But I am fine.”

“You are not fine,” she said, her eyes glittering. “You cannot be fine! Not with this... person.”

“Leave it,” I said. “Please.”

And at that moment the Irishman appeared. He always appeared at the exact moment when you were discussing him, as the Devil is said to appear whenever you speak his name out loud.

“A lovely afternoon, Lady Percy.” He eased himself into the chair next to me, putting his arm around my waist, making his possession clear. “Are you having a stimulating conversation with Johnny Lad?”

“I must go,” she said, standing abruptly. “I am meeting the Princess di Cristalli for tea and mustn’t be late.” She bent to kiss my cheek. “God bless you, John.”

The Irishman watched as she hurried across the piazza to her carriage. “That woman is a meddler,” he pronounced. “But she’s old. She might not live much longer.”

Those words struck a blow to my heart. “You wouldn’t!” I felt my cheeks flush with a righteous anger. “If you do anything to her, you’ll be sorry! I swear it!”

The Irishman’s arm tightened around me. “Are you threatening me, Johnny Lad?”

I swallowed. “Yes. If you make any harm come to her, I’ll kill you in your sleep and then kill myself.”

The Irishman regarded me darkly with his piercing grey eyes. But then he laughed. “Damned but I believe you would!” And he kissed me right on the mouth as we sat in the café. “I feared that all the spirit had been beaten out of you, caro mio.”

“Well, it hasn’t,” I said, holding my head at an arrogant angle as the other patrons stared and whispered. Let them look! Let them stare! I no longer gave a damn!

“Good,” murmured the Irishman, his fingers entwined with mine. “Good.”


	35. “A Message from Mycroft”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson is summoned.

Once again Holmes had left 221b before I rose.

James brought up my breakfast and I was almost finished with it when a summons came from nearby Gloucester Place. A young boy had fallen from a tree and broken his leg – would I be available to set it?

“Get my bag, James,” I instructed.

“Can I come, too, Doctor?” James asked, meeting me on the stairs with the bag in his hand. “I’ll carry this for you!”

In the face of the young man’s enthusiasm it was difficult to say no.

“Yes, yes. But let’s hurry. The child might be in pain.”

We walked out from Baker Street. It was a glorious day – rainy April was ending and May promised to be sunny and satisfying.

“Didn’t Mrs. Hudson have any errands for you this morning?” I said as we turned down York Street.

“Oh, I took food over to the gaol while you were still in bed,” said James. “I wouldn’t want to be shut up in that grim place, Doctor. Mick seems chipper enough, but I can tell he’s scared. And Dilly – she, I mean he, I mean...” James shook his head. “Dilly is so ill. I don’t think he eats much of it.”

That concerned me. “I must go over and see Dilly today. That cell is damp and airless, the worst possible place for a consumptive.”

“That’s what Mick says,” James agreed. “He’s worried, that’s for certain.”

“So you and Mr. Wiggins are on a first name basis?” I teased. “What would your mother say to you befriending the likes of Mick Wiggins?”

“Mick’s innocent,” James asserted. “You know it and Mr. Holmes knows it. Mick says the Guv – that’s what he calls Mr. Sherlock – will set them free. Mick says he’s solved many crimes and always gets the true criminal.”

“He’s working on it,” I assured him. “But this is a difficult case. And Inspector Lestrade and Scotland Yard are not helping. They believe they have the true culprits.”

“Well, they’re wrong!” James pronounced.

The boy in Gloucester Place had a simple sprain and not a break. He was in some pain, but he was more interested in the bandage I wrapped around his ankle. His mother was the one who was most distraught, crying and wringing her hands.

“Calm yourself, madam,” I urged. “The lad will be fine. Tall trees and young boys have an affinity that will not be denied. This won’t be the last injury he will take in his life. That is the nature of the male animal – to take chances and climb when there is something to be climbed. I only suggest that you bid him to be cautious.” I turned to the boy, who was sitting in James’ strong lap. “Do you hear me, young man? Will you be careful in the future?” 

The child nodded. “I got all the way up to that branch!” He pointed proudly to a high limb.

“Oh, that tree must be cut down immediately!” cried the mother, bursting into hysterical tears.

“Take your mistress inside and give her this.” I pressed a sedative vial into her maid’s hand. “Call me if there is a further problem.”

“You’re good with the little nippers,” said James as we walked back to Baker Street. 

“I try,” I replied. “In general practice you deal with many children.”

“Too bad you never had any of your own,” James mused. “Of course, I can’t see Mr. Sherlock – or His Lordship, for that matter – having children. I mean, Mr. Mycroft, of course.”

“I don’t think either of them have the patience for family life.” We paused before 221b. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, James? It’s a beautiful day and you should enjoy it while you are young and able.”

“Maybe,” he said uncertainly. “I did want to buy my mum a present.”

“Here,” I said, giving him ten shillings. “Buy her something very fine.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson!” exclaimed James. “You are too good!”

After sending James on his way, I hailed a cab and headed to the gaol to see Mick and Dilly. I found Mick as James had described him – chipper, but frightened underneath.

“Thank Mrs. H. for the grub,” he said. “I eat better than the coppers here!”

“Mrs. Hudson will be glad that her provisions are appreciated. And how are you, Mick? You look tired.”

“I don’t sleep too well, Doctor, and that’s a fact. But it’s mainly Dilly I’m afraid for. She was weak before, but now...” His face fell. “She’s bad, sir. Please do what you can.”

“I will, Mick, I promise,” I said. “And Mr. Holmes is working hard, too. You will both be free soon.”

I said the words, but I wasn’t sure I believed them. Holmes said he knew who had done the crime, but the culprits were not in hand. And if the Irishman was truly involved, that complicated the matter even more.

When I saw Dilly my heart sank even lower. The boy was thinner and paler than before, if that was possible. He had not been imprisoned even a week, but this was the result. A month would be the death of him.

“Has the prison physician been to see this child?” I demanded of the warder.

But he only shrugged. “What can he do, Dr. Watson? We must hold the prisoner here, Inspector Lestrade’s orders.”

I attempted to contain my outrage, but it was impossible. “This is intolerable! This boy should be in a hospital! Do you think he will run away? He can barely stand!”

But I was hitting my head against a brick wall. I had always thought Lestrade a reasonable man, but in this matter he was implacable.

I left the prison shrouded in a cloud. Rather than take a hansom home, I walked, thinking to diffuse my black mood. I walked down Fleet Street, past the newspaper offices, then past Chancery Lane and the Temple. I had not walked in this part of London for many a year and it brought to mind my early days as a medical student, when I had cheap lodgings just off the Kingsway, before I moved to Aldersgate to be close to St. Bart’s. Those were heady days – I had felt freedom for the first time in a long, long while – when I had gladly buried myself in my studies.

I found myself on the Strand and then in Trafalgar, then turned up St. Martin’s Lane until I stood before the Salisbury, the public house I had gone to with Mick.

I entered it and ordered a pint.

Men were standing at the bar or sitting at tables, drinking and speaking together, their heads close. A common enough scene, yet not so common if one knew what to look for. No females, not even a barmaid. And many young men who were – how shall I put it? – of a theatrical bent. It seemed an alien world to me now, but that had not always been the case. No, not at all.

“Fancy some company, sir?” asked a redheaded lad with a cheeky grin. 

I thought of Mick, languishing in the gaol cell. And Thommie, too, with his pale body and dark eyes. So many boys, so many men.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Not today.”

“If ever you want a friend, just ask for Stan,” he said. “I’m either here or at the Crown. Four shillings will put a smile on your face, sir – guaranteed!”

“I will remember.”

I finished my pint and caught an omnibus that took me back to Baker Street.

“Oh, Dr. Watson!” cried Mrs. Hudson, meeting me at the door. “I was praying you’d return home soon!”

“Heavens, woman, whatever is the matter?”

“This message was delivered about an hour ago.” She handed me a telegram. “It’s from Mr. Holmes’ brother and is marked as urgent!”

I unfolded the missive with anxious hands and read, my worst fears confirmed: “Come immediately to Diogenes Club. S. wounded.”


	36. “A Room in the Diogenes Club”

I do not remember how I got to the Diogenes Club. By hansom cab, I believe. Or perhaps I flew over the city like a bird. I only know that I don’t recall getting there, only reading Mycroft’s telegram, feeling my heart come to a standstill, and then arriving at the door, my medical bag in hand.

I was met by the porter. As befits the Diogenes Club, where everyone is silent and unsociable, the porter spoke not a word, but led me upstairs to a part of the club I imagine few people, not even the members, have ever explored. He opened a door, and then another door, and yet another, until we were in a darkened hallway. A figure loomed, like a spectre from a nightmare, large and shrouded in black. He extended a clammy hand in greeting.

“Doctor Watson,” said Mycroft Holmes, the saturnine presence otherwise known – or rather mainly unknown – as the Eighth Earl of Sherringford. “How are you?”

“Damned how I am!” It was all I could do to keep my temper in check. “Where in thunder is Holmes?”

“Resting comfortably,” said his brother. “Or as comfortably as Sherlock is ever able to rest when he is on the scent of a mystery like a hound after a fox. In here.” He indicated yet another door.

“This place is like a Chinese box!” I complained. “Why was he not taken to a hospital?”

“He refused to go to one,” Mycroft explained blandly. “He was wounded in St. James’ Park, apparently, and walked from there. By the time he reached the club, he’d lost a fair amount of blood.”

I moved to the door and pulled at it, but it was locked. “And meanwhile, while you are shillyshallying here, your brother – my intimate friend! – is bleeding to death somewhere in this preposterous maze of a so-called club!”

“You are quite the melodramatic fellow, aren’t you?” Mycroft lumbered to the door, nudging me aside. He took out a key and opened it. “Brother Sherlock requested privacy and I complied. Now you may enter.”

I don’t know what I expected to see, but it wasn’t Sherlock Holmes reclining on a pile of large pillows on the floor of a room rigged out like the tent of an Arabian sheikh, smoking a hookah, and playing chess with a monkey wearing a fez. I had to blink to make certain my eyes were not deceiving me.

“Ah, ha! Checkmate!” Holmes crowed in triumph as he moved his queen against the ape’s king.

The monkey stared at the chessboard for a moment, shrieked, and then turned over the board, scattering the pieces.

“I told you he hates to lose,” said Mycroft as the monkey clambered up the draperies, hooting and shaking his hairy fist.

“He’s just being petulant,” said Holmes, sitting up slowly. “Ow!” He put his hand on his side.

“What is going on here?” I demanded. “Are you truly injured, Holmes, or was this merely a ruse to vex me? And what is a monkey doing here?”

“A chimpanzee,” Mycroft corrected. “Part of a government experiment in mind control. The animal has been taught to play chess, but, unfortunately, his moves are quite rudimentary.”

“And he is, as my brother warned me, a very poor loser,” Holmes said as he endeavoured to stand. “And I have been wounded, Watson. That much is certain. I think that... that...” He paused, swaying, and then fell back onto the cushions in a dead faint.

“Holmes!” I cried, springing to his side. I turned him over. His white linen shirt was red on the right where blood was seeping through badly applied toweling. “I told you he needs to go to a hospital!”

Mycroft looked on with supreme unconcern. “You should be able to handle this well enough, Doctor. The wound did not seem deep and Sherlock assured me that no major organs had been compromised. I stanched the bleeding as best I was able and we waited for your arrival. Is there anything else you require?”

“Hot water!” I barked. “And please remove this monkey!” The beast was at that moment swinging from the draperies, chattering loudly.

“Chimpanzee,” Holmes mumbled as he stirred. 

“Whatever! Now shut up and lie still!” I ordered. Then I glared at Holmes’ brother. “And I need that water now, if you please.”

“I will have it brought,” said Mycroft. “Come, Sheridan.” He reached his hand out and the ape climbed down and took it. Then they both exited the room.

“Sheridan?” I said, my memory recalling something I’d learned recently in Sussex. “Your brother named that creature after the Seventh Earl of Sherringford?”

Holmes sniffed. “Grandfather could never stand losing at chess, either. Although he never climbed the curtains. At least not when he was at home.”

The wound was, as Mycroft attested, not deep, but it was bleeding profusely.

“A stab wound. From a fairly short knife. Perhaps even a penknife. Made from behind. By a right-handed man.” I opened my bag and took out a solution of antiseptic phenol and some cotton. Then I cleansed my hands with the carbolic to prevent further contamination.

“Very good, Watson,” Holmes breathed raggedly as I gently probed the injury. “You’ll make a detective yet. But you neglected to mention that my assailant was formerly a sailor in Her Majesty’s Navy who obtained the knife, a three-inch steel blade with a single edge and an ivory handle, in Hong Kong. And that he has a tattoo of a dragon on his right arm that was made in Macau, and another of a bird on his left shoulder that was made in the Japanese Islands, probably Kyushu. And that he walks with a limp from a childhood illness, most likely a form of poliomyelitis.”

“And how do you know all this just from this wound?” 

“I don’t,” Holmes admitted, wincing as I swabbed. “When I felt the pressure in my side I turned and glimpsed my would-be assassin, recognizing him as one of the Professor’s more lowly henchmen, a man named Redmond. I have already sent his name to Lestrade, along with the names of the killers of William Fisher, but whether our friend from Scotland Yard will act upon this valuable information is up to debate.”

“I will need to stitch this,” I said. “Would you like a dose of laudanum to numb the pain?”

“Laudanum?” Holmes made a disdainful face. “A nostrum for old women! Pour me a finger of whiskey and get on with your sewing, Watson. Perhaps a cross-stitch? With a lover’s knot?”

“I said to be still!” I returned. And, to my amazement, he was still – for the moment.

A servant came in with hot water and fresh towels, but Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

“He can’t stand the sight of blood,” Holmes commented, bolting down the whiskey. He was making a good show of pretending he wasn’t in pain, but I knew him well enough to know the truth. “I could not believe he attempted to nurse me before you came, Watson. Poor Brother Mycroft is undoubtedly sitting in a private room, fanning himself to prevent hyperventilation.”

“He should have called a doctor immediately,” I huffed.

“He did, my dear fellow,” Holmes replied. “You don’t think I’d allow anyone else but you to touch me? There’s no one I trust but you, especially now.”

Fear crept up my spine like a spider. “Is it that dangerous?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “Last night’s attack at Baker Street was deadly serious, but this seems more an attempt of chance. The Professor must have put a bounty on my head and Redmond spied me and thought he’s make a try. I was coming out of St. James’ Park – he must have followed me from Whitehall. I was on my way to see Mycroft anyway, so I continued onward.”

“So foolish!” I muttered. 

“Buck up, my boy! I’ve had worse – and so have you.” He reached out his hand and touched the fresh mark on my forehead. I had removed the plaster that morning and it was a mere trifling cut, halfway to being healed. “We will both carry scars from the Moriarty Wars.”

“Don’t joke about it,” I said, my heart thumping wildly.

“What else is there to do but jest? At least until this case is broken.” 

I finished stitching and bandaging, then eased Holmes back upon the pillows. “Will you return to Baker Street tonight? I can try to make you comfortable in a hansom.”

“No,” he said. “I think I shall remain here until I hear from Lestrade. But you go home and get some rest, my dear Watson. And don’t worry. I’m safer here than in Windsor Castle. Even if the Professor’s minions were to break into the Diogenes Club, they would never find their way to me through this maze of rooms. Or else they would be pitched out for the noise. The first rule of Diogenes, after all, is silence always.”

“Yes,” I said. “Silence always.”

“I say, my boy, would you hand me the hookah?”

I brought it to him. I’d seen Holmes smoke many a pipe in my time with him, but never the like of this contraption. I watched him pour out a measure of strongly sweet-smelling tobacco. He lit it and took a hard pull, sending the sickly-sweet smoke swirling in the air around his head.

“Ah! That is soothing,” he said, shutting his eyes. “I should sleep well, regardless of my injury.”

I frowned. “That isn’t laced with opium, is it?”

“Of course not!” he retorted, opening his dark hazel eyes and gazing at me. “You know I eschew opiates in that crude form. This is an herb that is medicinal and utterly harmless. It has a tranquilizing effect not unlike kif. A former client sent it to me from Mexico, where it grows quite wild. Would you like to try some?” He offered me the mouthpiece.

“No,” I replied. “I had better go now. I will return in the morning to change your bandage.”

“Good old Watson,” he said, sinking down into the deep cushions. “Tomorrow, then.”

I found my own way out of the Diogenes Club without catching sight of Mycroft or anyone except the silent porter at the door.

When I stepped onto Pall Mall I found that it was already dark. The city suddenly seemed full of peril. I thought of what Holmes had said about a bounty being on his head, with danger lurking in every shadow as the Irishman’s henchmen waited for their chance to take Holmes’ life.

How much was this my fault? There was my connection with Holmes and my connection with the Irishman – I was the sole link between them. The only tie. The Irishman had sent Holmes the drawings of me, which he had never mentioned. The Irishman had set himself up as Holmes’ nemesis and rival. He told me he had been watching me – watching us – for years. Watching – but to what sinister purpose?

There was only one thing to be done.

I hailed a cab and directed it to an address in Hampstead, to a house I knew all too well, but had not seen the inside of in almost eight years – not since shortly before I met Sherlock Holmes.

It was time to face my past and confront the Irishman – my former lover, Professor James Moriarty.


	37. “A Stranger and an Enemy”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts the Irishman.

The house seemed smaller than I remembered. I think that is often the case with places from the past – they grow in your imagination beyond the boundaries of reality. But it was still a dark place. Dark and foreboding, the windows blocked from the world by heavy curtains, the front door painted grey, making it look like it was made of banded iron.

The gate was locked. I rattled it, but it would not open.

Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps the house was empty, with the Irishman and his servants fled long ago. But the yard, although forlorn, did not look abandoned. And the gate, although closed tight, was not rusty.

I rapped loudly on the gate with my cane.

After a short while the front door opened and a man in a black tailcoat walked down the path. He glared at me through the bars. “Go away,” he hissed.

“I’m here to see the Professor,” I pronounced.

He frowned and glanced back at the house nervously. “Go away if you know what’s good for you.”

“Tell the Professor that John is here,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

I saw a shadow in the doorway and a sonorous voice called out: “Bring him in.” And then the shadow receded.

The servant shifted uneasily, but he unlocked the gate and let me in. I followed him up the path to the front door and entered without hesitation. 

The entry hall was dim and cool, as it had always been. The mirror on the wall. The ticking of the clock in the parlour. Nothing had changed, seemingly.

Except...

I had changed. I once had lived here, ate here, slept here, made love here, if you could call it love. Now I was a stranger. No, not just a stranger, but an enemy.

I strode past the servant into the parlour. Over the mantel, where an old Spanish masterpiece once had hung, was a new work. Or not exactly new, but new to that place. It was a portrait of me, done not by the Sicilian in Italy, but by a fashionable portraitist in Paris. I looked like a young and arrogant lord in my expensive suit, my hair golden and my head tilted at a haughty angle.

I felt the Irishman’s eyes on me before he spoke.

“How long has it been there?” I asked without turning around.

“Years,” said the Irishman. “Don’t ask me how many. I don’t bother to count the passing years anymore.”

I turned to look at him. “I thought numbers were your stock in trade? The great Professor of Mathematics! Do you even know what year it is? Or what day? What keeps you alive – besides hate?”

“Work keeps me alive,” he said. “And I have much work to do.” The servant was standing behind him and the Irishman nodded to him. “Take Dr. Watson’s bag, and his hat and coat.” The fellow stepped forward and took them from me. “Now give me your cane, John.”

I handed it over.

The Irishman examined the cane with interest, pulling it apart to reveal the blade hidden within. “Johnny Lad has a sting these days. He’s no longer a boy, but a man who mustn’t be crossed. Did you come here to run me through, John?”

“If I had wanted to run you through, you would already be dead,” I replied.

“Ah, yes,” said the Irishman. He put his hand on my shoulder. His touch felt too familiar. “Should I search you further? Are you carrying a revolver?”

“If you wish.” His long fingers caressed and threatened at the same time. “But I would be a fool to come here armed.”

The Irishman smiled poisonously. “Some men would say you would be more a fool to come here unarmed.”

“What man are you thinking of?” I said, knowing there was only one in his thoughts.

“He’s still alive,” the Irishman stated sourly. “The air-gun should have done the trick, but Moran is too hot-headed these days to shoot straight. And then that idiot with the knife! Now Holmes has gone to earth, like a fox. But he will emerge... one day. I have patience. He does not.”

“Moran? Is he your new favorite?” I asked. I tried to picture the man who had shot at us. Was he young? Old? A thug? Or a gentleman? The Irishman had all kinds in his service.

The Irishman’s hot breath was on my neck. “Moran is... useful. But he’s not a favorite. I have no favorites. No one knows my mind. I let no one know it. I have learned my lesson on that account.”

“Next time tell your henchmen to be more careful.” I faced him directly, showing him my forehead. “This is what your air-gun did.”

He squinted at my wound. It was minor compared with what Holmes had endured, but I knew the Irishman well enough to gauge his reaction. He had an almost pathological fear of injury and disease. Long ago I used that apprehension to convince him to let me begin my medical studies. I told him that having his own physician, one he could trust implicitly, would be to his benefit. And it worked – for a while.

“You were hit?”

“I was knocked down by the force of the blast from your air-gun,” I said, exaggerating just a little. “And just avoided being its victim in a worse way.”

“That stupid Moran!” he fumed. “He told me he missed completely!”

“If you are determined to kill Sherlock Holmes, then you will likely kill me as well,” I stated. “For I stand with him as close as I can, day and night.”

“Yet you were not there today,” he returned.

To that I did not reply.

“Where is he?” The Irishman took my hand and squeezed it. “He never returned to Baker Street.”

I steadied myself. “If I knew I would not tell you.”

The Irishman dropped my hand and shoved me away in disgust. “Why are you here, John? Has he turned you out?”

“Of course not,” I replied.

The Irishman’s lip curled. “Did he enjoy the drawings I sent? Did he like seeing you in such... interesting poses?”

But I was prepared for this. “He keeps them in his bedroom for his perusal. They are not bad at all. And Holmes knows art. Did you know his grandmother was the sister of Vernet?”

“Yes, I know that!” The Irishman’s left eye twitched. “I’m not a fool! I know everything about Sherlock Holmes! More than you know, my lad.”

“I doubt that,” I drawled.

The Irishman crossed the room and poured himself a glass of claret from a crystal decanter. “I would offer you a glass, Johnny Lad, but I doubt you’d accept a drink from me.”

I went and stood next to him. I took the decanter and helped myself to a glass. “You should never drink alone. It’s the first sign of the long slide to becoming a true drunkard.”

“Like your brother?” he sniped.

“I believe Henry had help in his downfall,” I said. “Tell me the truth – did you orchestrate his failure? Did you drive my brother to his early death?”

The Irishman shrugged. “He did not need much help. You know that as the truth. I may have given him a slight... push. But no more than that.”

“He was my brother.” I whispered. “You destroyed him.”

“He didn’t deserve your love or your respect,” he answered. “Don’t waste your grief on him.”

“And now you want to destroy...” I paused. 

“Your lover?” The Irishman sneered. “Sherlock Holmes!”

I felt cold fingers grip my heart. “He is not my lover. Not now, nor in the past. Never.”

The Irishman snorted. “Then you are both fools! Do you fear the approbation of the world so much, my lad? You were never so timid before.”

“It’s not fear of the world,” I said. “It is... impossible.”

The Irishman caught me in his arms and held me. “Why did you come here? Did Holmes send you to taunt me? Because I will kill him. Perhaps not tomorrow or next week or even next year, but I will do it. His days are numbered.”

I did not push him away. “That’s why I’ve come. To make a deal with you.”

The Irishman’s eyes were like hard, grey agates. “I don’t bargain. You know that already, John.”

And now was the time. “But you might. That is, if I had something you truly desired.”

He stood very still, his mind alert to my words. “Have you come here to offer me Holmes? That isn’t like you at all. You are the most loyal creature on the face of this earth.”

“No,” I said. “Not Holmes.”

The Irishman laughed. “Then what else? What could you possibly have that I might want?”

“Myself,” I replied.

The Irishman blinked. Now I had surprised him. “Don’t toy with me, John Watson. That is a dangerous game.”

“I am not toying with you,” I said. “I know the stakes and I know the danger. I am offering you a proposal. If you vow not to kill Sherlock Holmes or have him killed, then I will come to you and stay with you. You know that I always keep my word. If I promise it and you agree, then you can have me and do with me what you will – as long as Holmes remains unharmed.”

“Do you mean that, Johnny Lad?” he breathed. “Truly?” 

I closed my eyes. “Yes,” I said. “I mean it. Truly.”


	38. “Another Fateful Bargain”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John seals the bargain with the Irishman.

 

“But why?” the Irishman demanded suspiciously. “Is this a trap?”

“Look into my eyes,” I said. “You know it is not.”

He stared deeply into my eyes until I could feel him piercing my very soul.

“I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “You hate me! You have made that clear enough the last few times we met.”

“My feelings for you are of no consequence,” I declared. “This is not about you. This is about Holmes. If this is what I must do to keep him safe, then I will do it.”

The Irishman bolted down his claret and poured himself another glass.

“More for me, too, if you please,” I requested. 

A stranger walking into the room and seeing us would think it a mundane sight – two old friends drinking together, sharing a fine claret. But things are not always as they seem.

I gazed into my glass at the blood-red vintage. This was difficult, but it was necessary. I could do it – and I would do it.

“Why?” he asked again. “I want to know!”

“Because...” I swallowed. The only thing was to be truthful. The Irishman could always sniff out a lie, but the truth he could not deny. “Because I love him. I have for many years. You took us for lovers, but it’s not that. For me it’s much more than that. He is everything to me – my entire reason for being alive. I didn’t make myself face that fact until very recently. And now that his life is in danger...” I paused, trying not to falter. “My own existence is meaningless. I have done nothing worthwhile in my life, nothing to leave my mark on the world. My loss would cause barely a ripple. But Holmes is a different story. His loss would be a great tragedy. His great mind and intellect...”

“His mind? Bah!” The Irishman growled the words. “His intellect? Sherlock Holmes is a mere insect compared to me! I will crush him under my boot heel!”

“I am offering myself,” I repeated. “You know the terms.”

“Do you really love him so much?” The Irishman’s voice was softer now. But that meant he was even more dangerous, for he was revealing a side of him that was close to human. And humans are even more deadly creatures than machines.

“Yes,” I said. “But that matters little because he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love anything. He is incapable of such emotions. And that is, in the end, a fortunate thing, for he will not miss me too much. And then, after a time, he will forget me absolutely.”

“That remains to be seen,” the Irishman commented.

“And one more thing...”

His lips pressed together in annoyance. “What now? A fine carriage? A villa on Capri? A sapphire stickpin?”

“I’ve already had those things,” I reminded him. “The killers of William Fisher. I want them handed over to the authorities so that Mick Wiggins and Dilly Mitchell can be freed.”

“Why do you care about the fates of two slum whores?” the Irishman grumbled. “They are beneath your notice.”

“They are innocent,” I replied.

“Innocence is a relative term,” the Irishman reflected. “In the eyes of most decent people, those two are hardly innocent and deserve whatever penalty they draw.”

But I was adamant. “They did not kill Fisher. You know it, I know it, and Holmes knows it. Let them go free.”

The Irishman’s brow furrowed. He was not used to haggling and didn’t care for it. “You cannot save every stray cat from the gutter, Johnny Lad. Forget those two.”

I put my hand on his wrist, lightly. “Please?” I said, coaxing. 

He sighed. “I will see what I can do. But it’s bad business to turn good servants over to Scotland Yard, especially when they have simply followed orders.”

“Then find another way to free Mick and Dilly. You can think of a way – a powerful mind like yours.”

He smiled at me, preening. And I shuddered to find how easily I fell back into the old routine of flattery, using sweet words to get my way. But the difference was that then I was a callow and beautiful boy, while now I was a grown man, a doctor and a soldier. Or I had been, because that would all be ending. Anything I was before, I would no longer be. I would be only the Irishman’s catamite. At least for as long as I pleased him. And after that – I would undoubtedly be dead.

“I have waited for this moment so long, Johnny Lad,” he said, almost purring. He pressed his body against mine. He was older than the last time we had been together, but so was I. The Irishman might be evil, but he was also seductive and still attractive. His deep, resonant voice still had the power to enthrall. 

I closed my eyes and pictured Holmes. Imagined him there, in my arms, the way I had so often pictured him, when I was with a female or, more recently, with Mick or Thommie or even the attendant at the bathhouse.

I could do this. I had to do it.

He pushed me to my knees and I did not falter. I did what was required of me and performed my duty to the best of my ability.

And in doing it, I sealed this devil’s bargain for the second time in my life.

“Come, caro mio,” the Irishman whispered, pulling me by the hand. “We need privacy. Our room is exactly the way it was. No other man has polluted it since you left. I always knew you would return, Johnny. I knew it.”

“Wait,” I said, halting before the stairs. “I need to go back to Baker Street and conclude my affairs first.”

The Irishman’s face darkened. “Are you regretting this already, John Watson?”

“No,” I affirmed. “Not at all. But I cannot simply disappear. You know Holmes – he would turn the city upside down to find out what had happened to me. And that means he would eventually come to this door. You know him well enough to realize that is merely the truth.”

“Then what?” asked the Irishman. “If I am not allowed to kill him?”

“Or harm him,” I added, knowing that the Irishman would seize on any loophole. 

“Yes,” said the Irishman. “Or harm him.”

“I need to go back and close down my medical practice,” I said. “I have an acquaintance who will take over my few patients. And I must settle my accounts. I wish to leave no debts behind.”

“And Holmes?” The Irishman practically spat out the name.

“He will understand why I wish to leave Baker Street,” I said, thinking of Holmes watching me with Thommie in that room in Cleveland Street. The look on his face. “This has been coming for some time. He will not be surprised by my decision. I will tell him that... that... I am going on a long trip. Perhaps to the Continent. To sort things through. He will not endeavour to stop me. And he will not seek me out, as he would if I were simply to vanish. Because if I did that he would never rest until he found me. You know that a mystery is the very air that he breathes.”

“I know,” said the Irishman. “Curse the man!”

“So I need time to accomplish this.”

The Irishman leaned close to me. “Three days,” he allowed. “That should be enough time. You will come to me on Sunday and I will be waiting. Then we will go abroad for a while.”

“Abroad?”

“Yes,” he said. “I cannot have you remain in London until time has permitted things to be confirmed between us. And I am sure you do not wish to be shut up in this house for months at a time.”

“No,” I thought of the oppressive atmosphere of the place. “I do not.”

The Irishman smiled, pleased with his plan. “I have business in America, in New York and Chicago. New opportunities to seek and new connections to make. I also have my estate in Virginia. It is secluded, but quite beautiful there. The mountains are as blue as your eyes. It will be like a honeymoon.” And then he laughed. “A second honeymoon!”

I nodded. He was right. It would be best if I left London, left England. I wanted to be as far away from the Irishman’s machinations as possible.

And as far away from Sherlock Holmes as I could get. A wide ocean away.

“Sunday, then,” he said, leading me to the front door.

“Sunday,” I agreed.

“And if you do not turn up,” he added, his voice sharper now. “I will come and collect you. Because now that you are mine, I am not planning to let you go again. I vow that no one else shall ever have you – only me. Do you hear me and understand, Johnny Lad?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I hear you. And I understand.”


	39. “A Choice and a Forfeit”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembers the past as he contemplates the future.

It was difficult leaving the Irishman, but I knew it was what I had to do if I didn’t want to become something I despised.

In many ways life with him was easy, even pleasant. That is, if you didn’t think too much about what you were doing with him. Or about what the Irishman was doing when he wasn’t with you. I tried not to think about that. I tried to think about pleasure, and presents, and beautiful places – Florence, Venice, Rome, Capri, Paris, Vienna. About handsome clothes and parties and dancing to lively music, surrounded by people who lived only for their own enjoyment, people who were always laughing and drinking and making love.

And I was in the middle of it all. I was the Irishman’s companion. His boy. His catamite. But that made little difference in the circles in which we traveled. They were used to sex and sin and drink and anything else that blocked out reality. Everyone had too much money, too many possessions, and all the time in the world to enjoy themselves. And I threw myself into that way of thinking, acting as if it would never end. Acting as if I did not care.

And always in the background stood the Irishman, smiling grimly to himself. Always on the fringe of it all, watching me. Sometimes he’d disappear for days and I knew he was off somewhere, doing business. I did not ask what that business was. I didn’t want to know what it was. But that thought of it kept me awake many, many nights.

So across the Continent we moved, from one grand hotel and villa to the next, eating in fine restaurants, attending elegant parties, and mingling with wealthy and titled people. Everywhere we went the Irishman bought me things – suits and boots, jewelry and watches, golden cigarette cases, rare books, anything I saw and fancied, until we were laden with luggage like an army traveling with a city in its wake.

We were in Paris when a man came to see the Irishman. He was a small, plain man, but he had a hard face and a blunt manner. I knew him to be one of the Irishman’s upper servants, left in charge of his empire in London while we meandered around Europe, spending money. They were closeted together for hours in our suite, while I went out and sat in one of the cafés, watching the world go by and flirting with whomever passed, both male and female. And they flirted back. I was beautiful and I knew it, so why not enjoy it? But I never acted on any of the many invitations I received. To do so would have been the end of me.

Finally, I returned to out hotel. The plain little man was gone and the Irishman was not in a happy mood.

“We must pack. We leave for London tomorrow on the train,” he informed me.

“Is there something the matter?” I asked uneasily.

“Nothing you should concern yourself with, Johnny Lad,” he soothed. “Nothing at all.”

But all was not well in London. There were pretenders to the Irishman’s empire, as well as Scotland Yard, which was breathing down the necks of many of his minions. But always the Irishman himself stayed aloof. He had made certain that it was difficult, if not impossible, to connect him to the many enterprises he surveyed. But he was restless, very restless, and that made him touchy. He sometimes lashed out at me in anger, but I could never strike back – to do so would have been too dangerous. I found that I liked my life, even if it lacked all purpose. Even if it lacked any sense of honour or decency.

In London we did not go out, except very rarely to the theatre or opera. And no one came to the house, which was as gloomy and oppressive as ever. I went back to my old routine of driving in the carriage, or working out with sword or stick, or taking day trips to some scenic spot, always alone. The Irishman had little desire for sightseeing.

I was also reading through the Irishman’s library, finding myself drawn to the medical texts more and more. I began to think about my future. I had to think about the future, for my present was so lost and so lonely that the prospect of the future was all I had to keep me waking up in the morning.

One day I had the carriage take me into town and drop me on the Strand for luncheon and some shopping, with orders to pick me up a few hours later. But I did not go shopping – I went to the University of London to inquire about entering the Medical School.

I had no doubt I would be accepted, and I still had my father’s money in trust for my education to pay for my fees and books, so the main obstacle was, of course, the Irishman. But I needed to waste no time, for the term was due to start in a few weeks.

I waited until the Irishman was in a sweetened mood before I broached the subject, laying out my rationale for this study and pointing out that having a personal physician would serve him well – he would never need to wonder if he could trust a stranger with his life and well-being. Needless to say, he did not immediately agree to my proposition, but he could see the advantages to it.

But the main disadvantage was that I would be out of his sight for the better part of the day for weeks at a time. I would be interacting with people he had not approved, perhaps even making friendships, or at least acquaintances, with them. But it was also becoming clear that he could not keep me locked up in the Hampstead house for the remainder of my life. And we could not spend all our time traveling when he needed to be in London, conducting his business. This was a dilemma that the Irishman’s colossal brain had never imagined facing and it left him in a confusion that was unprecedented.

In the end he gave his permission, but only because he was preoccupied. Having me busy and elsewhere freed his mind for his greater attentions. So, ironically, I had Scotland Yard and their crackdown on crime to thank for my taste of freedom. I plunged into my studies, while keeping myself aloof from the other students. Perhaps they thought I was a snob, or perhaps they didn’t think of me at all, but I remained apart, still fearful of the Irishman’s wrath.

And so I spent my first year of study. And I did well. I was not at the top of the class, but I was not at the bottom, either. Being in the anonymous middle was exactly where I wished to be, just one of many, not standing out in any way, either for good or ill. I put my expensive suits and my jewelry away and dressed somberly. I proceeded as I had among the Jesuits, eating simply, drinking not at all, exercising my body and expanding my mind – and I thrived on that regimen.

The Irishman viewed my progress with a wary eye, but I think he was also proud of my initiative. He often asked me questions about my studies, and I was surprised – although I should not have been, considering the power of his mind – at his knowledge of things outside of Mathematics, such as Chemistry, Physiology, and even Anatomy.

And as the Irishman’s affairs took him away from the house for longer periods of time, I stretched my legs, literally, by joining an amateur Rugby club, Blackheath. The Rugby Football Union was in its infancy and let any willing player have a go, and I was very willing. Playing hard in the fresh air after hours in the classroom, or at study, or at pleasing the Irishman, was a welcome relief. The other men took me as I was – they did not ask about my past or question my present as long as I held my own, which I may say that I did quite handily. But the Irishman never came to see me play, although I coaxed him. It was not a place for him, he said. 

After my first year of medical studies ended, the Irishman and I traveled to Ireland. It was my first visit to his homeland, which was also the land of my mother’s family. We stayed with an elderly relative in a crumbling mansion in Clare. It was beautiful, but desolate. I spent my days riding or walking across the treeless terrain, while the endless wind howled at night even at the height of summer. 

But in staying at that bleak place I saw what drove the Irishman – his had been a grand family once, but little was left. The Irishman had his great mind and that was his legacy. But I also heard stories from the servants there, dark whisperings of insanity and betrayal and even murder, for there was a forbidding streak running through the family. The Irishman, apparently, came by his moodiness and villainy naturally, in his blood.

I was glad when we returned to London.

But the Irishman was troubled and preoccupied. Something was happening in his empire – something ill.

As I prepared to begin my second year of study, the Irishman was preparing for something else.

I came home one afternoon from a session at the fencing master’s salon, to find the house in an uproar.

“Pack, John,” the Irishman ordered. “We take the train to Liverpool and leave for New York in the morning.”

I was so stunned I had to sit down. “But... why?”

“Don’t question me!” he bellowed. “Pack your things!”

“But...”

The Irishman grabbed me by the throat like a dog holds a rabbit. “I said do not question me! Go now and do as I say.”

He did not need to tell me that the police were on his scent and we were one step ahead of Scotland Yard. I went and packed my things, including my medical books, for I still had hopes.

The train ride to Liverpool was full of anxiety. At every stop on the way I expected a contingent of constables to enter our First Class compartment with handcuffs. But we reached the seaport without incident and checked into a hotel near the waterfront.

That night the Irishman didn’t sleep, but paced back and forth on the carpet, his hands behind his back, thinking.

And I lay in bed, also thinking.

In the morning we rose, dressed, and a carriage took us to the dock, where a steamship was boarding passengers for America. A late summer rain was falling and we sat in the carriage, waiting for our turn to embark.

“I cannot,” I whispered, knowing my wishes were not a surprise to him. “Please let me stay and continue my studies. I can’t live this way any longer. It will be the death of my soul.”

“Your soul?” the Irishman snarled. “You still believe you have a soul?”

“Yes,” I said. “I still believe.”

“How can I let you go?” he said, his voice low. “You are the only thing I care for.”

“Then, if you really do care for me, you will give me a chance to live. Not to spend the rest of my life running and fearful, a hunted thing. I want to walk freely again, while I still have the chance.”

He did not reply or even look at me. He got out of the carriage and spoke to one of his servants, while the rest scrambled around the carriage, piling trunks on a trolley to take to the ship. And I sat there, alone inside, considering my fate.

Finally, the Irishman opened the carriage door. “You will be taken back to the train station. A compartment has been reserved for you. Tomorrow go to my bank in London. There will be a payment of cash waiting in your name. But spend it wisely – you will get no more from me, John Watson. You will get nothing else from me, do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said. “And I will ask for nothing else from you, for you have given me the only thing I desire – my freedom.”

He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “Freedom is an overrated commodity. But if you must have it, then use it wisely. Adieu, Johnny Lad.”

And he walked off towards the boat without looking back.

I did not see him again until years later, just before I left for India, and then once again when I returned from the East, a man broken in body and spirit. 

But I would not change that decision. No, not for all of the Irishman’s wealth and power. 

And now I was placing myself in his hands once again. 

But I could see no other way to protect the life of the only living person I cared anything for – Sherlock Holmes. His safety was all that mattered. The Irishman had given me my freedom because he loved me. Now I was giving Holmes the same thing, and for the same reason.

And as I stood in our quiet sitting room in Baker Street that night after leaving the Irishman’s house, knowing Holmes was somewhere else, wounded and in pain, his life in mortal danger, I knew I had made the right choice, even if it meant the forfeit of my own life.

I went into his room. As was usual, it was cluttered and the bed unmade. The print of ‘The Sleep of Reason’ presided over all, but the livid monsters that troubled the sleeper’s dream seemed tame compared with the real horrors of a life lived without honour or love.

I could not stop myself, but picked up his pillow and pressed it to my face. His scent, his essence filled my being.

I would leave and never think of him again. That was my vow.

And I knew I was looking at the end of my life.


End file.
